


The Ties That Bind

by roryheadmav



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Highlander - Freeform, M/M, Nonconsensual, Slash, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-06-12
Updated: 1999-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roryheadmav/pseuds/roryheadmav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this alternate universe story, Methos is haunted by a terrible sin he had committed in the past. What does this have to do with the appearance of the Horseman known as Death? My entry to HLQC's "The Tempering Forge" contest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

In The Beginning,

        A man walked through the dimly lighted halls of a keep, ignoring the blood-curdling screams and keening wails that filled the air. His mind was programmed for one thing only: to destroy, to kill. To his ears, his slim blade sang an unholy dirge, the song rising in a horrific crescendo with every man he slashed and every woman he gutted. It was no surprise that he himself was already humming along to that tune of devastation. After all, he was a juggernaut, the Destroyer. He was Death.

       Reaching the chamber of the laird of the keep, he was met by two guards, desperate to protect their wounded leader inside. Their end was swift as his sword cut through their necks in the blink of an eye.

       Kicking the doors open, Death beheld the chieftain's wife weeping, cradling her dead husband lying on the bed in her arms. He clucked his tongue in disappointment. Why did the laird have to die so soon? He wanted so much to see the agony in the man's eyes as Death gutted him from crotch to throat. A wicked grin curled up his lips. Well, his wife would have to do.

       Suddenly, a tiny figure in white blocked his way towards the bed. For a moment, he thought it was a ghost, as if Death had any reason to be afraid of ghosts. Instead, it was a cherub.

       Death gazed appreciatively at the child before him. He was a pretty little boy, not more than five. Wavy sable locks and a fawn's dark brown eyes. It amused him to see the courage in those sweet eyes.

       _Not an ounce of fear in them, _  he observed.

       The child was breathing heavily through parted, rosy lips. Death had no doubt how comely this creature would look if a smile formed on that full mouth.

       "Hold your ground, warrior," the boy warned him, his brogue rolling like the waves of the sea. He pointed a wooden play sword menacingly at him. "I will not let you harm my mother!"

       _The chieftain's son, _Death thought. _This is getting interesting._

       He eyed the brave child with disdain. Tapping the blade of wood with his own sword of iron and blood, he asked, "Do you think this is going to stop me?" Before the boy could even blink, Death swung his sword and cut the child's toy in two.

       "LEAVE MY SON ALONE, YOU DEMON!" the woman on the bed screamed in rage.

       As she ran to protect her wee bairn, Death grabbed the child by the collar of his shirt and pulled him aside, raising his sword at the same time. As he stabbed the chieftain's wife, the child screamed in horror. To Death, that high-pitched cry sounded like the triumphant soprano of his own blade. Yanking his blood- soaked blade back, the woman fell lifeless to the floor.

       "MOTHER! MOTHER!" the boy cried as he fell to his knees beside the body of his beloved mother, all courage and bravado lost...or so Death thought. Feeling the warmth retreating from his mother's hand, the child turned to look at him, fury in his dark brown eyes. He then threw himself at the murderer of his parents, his tiny hands and feet striking blows upon Death's lean form, which merely tickled him.

       Grabbing the boy's wrist, Death pulled him up so that they were face to face. "Welcome to the real world, child!"

       Defiantly, the boy spat in Death's face. Feeling the spittle run down his cheek, he glared at the child. There was a flash of anger in his eyes as he struck the boy with the back of his hand, knocking him into unconsciousness.

       Staring at the still form on the floor, suddenly, a voice insidiously entered his mind. It was the voice of his Master.

       _"You have done well, my faithful warrior," _the Master whispered, his voice like the hissing of a snake. _"Choose your reward! Do you like this child? Such a pretty wee thing, isn't he? He's yours, if you want him."_

       Death hesitated at these words. He had taken both men and women before. But a child, and such a small one as this? The conscience he thought he had long ago purged resurfaced with such force. Just the thought of what the Master had in mind revolted him.

       In his quandary, Death didn't notice the child stir. Wiping the blood from his mouth, he raised his head to gaze at the man who had slain his parents. The light of rage in Death's eyes was dying out. The boy stared into those green gold orbs, mesmerized by the emotions flashing through them. One was disgust and revulsion. The other... It was a look he did not understand, so young as he was. It was the same look his father accorded his mother before they locked themselves inside their chamber at night.

       "Why are you looking at me that way?" the child asked the killer standing above him.

       _"Such a brave little boy," _the Master chuckled wickedly.  _"You must put him in his place."_

       "Put you in your place," Death mumbled as the Master regained control.

       Yanking the child to his feet, Death dragged him towards the bed. With a jerk on the covers, he flung the laird's body off the mattress. He then threw the little boy on the bloodstained sheets.

       Though he was terribly afraid of the man who was climbing on top of him, the child forced down his fear.

       "You don't have to do this," he said firmly. "You have won. I am no threat to you."

       As Death took him in his arms, the little boy closed his eyes in calm surrender.

 

       A man dashed madly through the halls of a keep, wanting an escape from the accusing cries of his conscience. But he knew escape was futile.

       He ran and ran, entering a small corridor that led to a staircase. Still, the man did not stop, even when he finally reached the tower.

       Without thinking twice, the man leaped through the window and plunged into the dark blue waters of the loch below.

       Meanwhile, in a small chamber, a child lay still on top of sheets stained by the blood of his father. The boy himself was bleeding.

       A dark figure entered and slowly went towards the bed. Taking the limp form in his arms, he carried the child out of the room, the sounds of his evil laughter filling the deserted halls of the keep.


	2. Chapter 2

 

**CHAPTER TWO**

 

       Methos was pounding away at his forge. As sweat trickled from his brow, he forced the hard iron to bend to his will. Already, he could see the shape of the fine blade it would soon become.

       Suddenly, a strange vibration tickled the hairs at the back of his neck. At the same time, the door to his smithy squeaked open. He didn't have to turn to find out who his visitor was.

       "You never quit, do you Cassandra?" he commented in exasperation, without looking at the beautiful seeress.

       "He is close," she replied.

       "So he's close. What could I do about it?"

       "You know as well as I do that you're the only one who could stop him." Cassandra could barely hide the anger in her voice.

       Whirling around, Methos declared, "Look! It's done! Over! History! Nothing you say or do could ever make me take up the sword again!"

       "Would you want the deaths of innocent people on your conscience?"

       "As long as they are not by my blade, I could live with it." Turning back to his work, Methos gripped his hammer tightly and pounded hard on the iron, red hot from the fire from the forge. "Do you know how much I loved what I was and the things I did? I liked the sounds of the screams of the dying and the weeping of the mourning. I liked the smell of blood and the smoke of destruction."

       Cassandra nodded her head. "I know."

       Methos gritted his teeth. Of course, Cassandra would know. He had destroyed her village centuries back. She was one of his victims. The only reason she survived was that she, like him, was Immortal. And now, she was his friend...after the change, that is.

       "For centuries, you have terrorized the world," her words reached his hearing. "You have shown no remorse for the evil you have done. And yet, one night, your humanity was restored to you, and you have been carrying the weight of your guilt for thirty years."

       "Do you think," Methos began, "by reminding me of that terrible night, you could convince me to help you?"

       "It would help ease your conscience."

       "Nothing could ease my conscience, Cassandra! NOTHING!" His voice was choked with emotion. "How could stopping a potential bloodbath absolve the heinous sin I had committed, when I had taken one innocent..." Methos couldn't finish what he was going to say.

       "By taking up your sword again," the seeress answered, "you can prevent history from possibly happening again. You can stop another Death from taking another child!"

       At these words, Methos struck the hammer down so hard that it broke the sword he was making. Bowing his head, he was thankful that his long hair shielded his face, so that Cassandra would not see the anguish in his eyes.

       "Cassandra, I want you to leave," he muttered under his breath. "There is nothing I can do to help you. I'm sorry."

       There was such disappointment in the seeress' voice. "I'm sorry, too, that you turned out to be such a coward. Stay in this hidey-hole like a rat! You could rot here for all I care!"

       Storming off, she paused at the doorway. "You know, Methos?" Cassandra said bitterly. "I'm glad Alexa is no longer alive. I don't think her good heart could have handled the knowledge that her beloved husband was once a killer, a rapist and a God-damned pederast!"

       Saying this, the seeress slammed the door shut behind her. When she was gone, Methos laid his hammer down on the anvil and walked wearily towards the table. Opening the drawer, he pulled out a long leather strap. There were gold buckles on both ends. Ornate designs were etched into the leather finish. Methos pressed the handfasting band close to his heart.

       "She knew, Cassandra," the Immortal whispered as tears flowed from his eyes. "Alexa knew."

 

       _Methos was kneeling at Alexa's bedside, gripping her cold hands tightly. His body shook with the force of his sobs._

_       Unable to bear the burden in his soul, he had told his wife the entire truth. Methos was expecting anger and revulsion, that Alexa would drive him away._

_       But his wife's reply was a sorrowful smile and words he was surprised to hear._

_       "Who am I to condemn you for the things you have done in the past?" she asked softly. "What I do know is the man that you are now." Alexa gently caressed his cheek, brushing away his tears. "My loving husband!"_

_       "I am a monster!" he exclaimed in despair. "How could you be so understanding and kind, after knowing the horrible crimes I have committed?"_

_       "You are NOT the monster!" was his wife's firm answer. "The real monster was the one who ordered you to do those terrible things!" Sorrow filled Alexa's eyes. "I fear for you, Methos. Promise me you will not take up the sword again. Your...Master. If the bloodlust overcomes you, he might control you once more."_

_       "Ever since...that night...I have never picked up my sword," Methos revealed. "I will never do so again, ever!"_

_       "I'm glad." Alexa cupped Methos' face in her hands. "I know I don't have long to live..."_

_       The Immortal shook his head. "No! Please, Alexa! Don't say that!"_

_       "Forgive me, but it's the truth. My illness... It grows worse every day. Oh, if you could only spare me a year or two of your eternity."_

_       "Alexa, don't leave me! I can't live without you!"_

_       "You WILL live!" Alexa declared. "This is another promise you must keep! I may not be able to see the future like Cassandra, but I do know that you will not be alone for long. You will find someone to love, and who will love you back just as much." His wife smiled at him reassuringly. "I could feel it in my heart. It will be someone you already know."_

       Methos' memories ended there. With a sob, he whispered, "God, Alexa! I miss you so much! I wish you were here to tell me what to do!"

 

       A few hours before dusk, Methos stood at the bank of the small pond, the handfasting band laid in his hands. This place was his and Alexa's favorite spot. His dark stallion, Hesperus, was tethered to a pine, his Ivanhoe sheathed on the saddle.

       "Alexa, I'm so sorry," he said sadly. "I know I promised. But Cassandra's right. I can't allow the killings to continue. I'm taking a huge risk by confronting this new Death. Wherever you are, I hope you will forgive me. I pray that you will watch over me and keep me safe from the Master."

       Just as he was about to throw the band into the water, the Immortal heard a rustling in the brush. Swiftly, he hid behind the bushes, just as a rider emerged from the trees. Methos' eyes widened in shock.

       The rider was clad in a flowing white hooded cloak stained with blood. His shirt was also white, although it was also spattered with dried blood. His kilt was a deep blue. The knee high boots on his feet were jet black. His mare was grayish white. Getting down from his horse, he pulled back his hood to reveal a face that was painted blue and white. Methos knew Death when he saw him. After all, he had assumed the persona for many centuries.

       As the blacksmith watched, Death unlaced his cloak and let it fall to the ground. Walking towards the pond, he began to peel off his clothes. First, his boots, followed by his shirt. Then, he removed the belt of his sword and unwrapped the kilt from his waist, leaving only his loincloth.

       Methos couldn't help but admire the firm lines of that broad back. It tapered down to a narrow waist and rounded buttocks. His legs were long and graceful. Wavy dark brown hair caressed his shoulder blades.

       Death dove into the pond and swam in its cool waters, letting the dirt and paint be washed away from his skin. The Immortal contemplated running to his horse to get his sword, but when Death emerged and climbed onto the shelf of rock near the shore, Methos paused, frozen by the alluring siren before him.

       Indeed, Death was a beautiful young man. Long eyelashes capped his lovely dark brown eyes. His cheeks were flushed from the swim. The full lips were parted, letting small sips of air in.

       Methos could feel his heart beating rapidly. &lt;Good lord, what is happening to me? He's here on a reconnaissance mission. If I don't kill him now, I may never get the chance again. But, curses, why can't I do it?&gt;

       To make matters more disturbing, the Immortal saw Death lie down on the rock and begin to play with himself. Methos knew from experience that the bloodlust was strong enough to excite one sexually. He felt an eager twitch in his loins, watching the young man's hands flutter all over his body.  As Death rubbed his palms over his chest, a groan escaped from those luscious lips as his fingers brushed over the tiny buttons. He moaned in pleasure when he pinched and pulled at his nipples. Then, his hands descended, settling around the impressive erection between his legs. Slowly, he began stroking himself, pumping his hard organ from the base to the tip. Already, Death was eagerly thrusting his hips upwards, as if he were making love to the air above him. Nearing the climax, his strokes became faster and furious, his cries more ecstatic. When he came, Death's scream pierced the silence of the woods. To Methos' chagrin, he felt wetness in his own breeches.

       _Damn it! _  the Immortal berated himself for a thousandth time. _What IS happening to me?_

       While Death wiped away the traces of his self-abasement, Methos' eyes turned to his sword again, forcing his mind to accept the necessity of killing the young man. But it was a deed his heart would not accept. Instead, he found himself staring at the ornate band in his hands.

       The implication of what his heart wanted him to do shocked him. _This is insane! I can't! I WON'T!_

       But his body was already moving on its own accord, controlled by a force more powerful than his mind. As he approached, it was then that Death heard him. Turning, Death's eyes flared up with the unholy light of hellfire.

       Swiftly, he dashed towards his sword lying on the ground. Methos, however, was quicker. With a lunge, he tackled Death to the ground. The two men wrestled furiously, exchanging blows. Methos was caught at an early disadvantage, not having fought in years. Soon, thankfully, his battle instincts resurfaced. With a fierce twist of his body, the Immortal trapped Death beneath him, his hands behind his back.

       Taking the handfasting band, Methos tied Death's wrists with it, pulling the strap through the buckle hard. He secured the other end around his right hand.

       Hauling Death to his feet, the Immortal pushed him in the direction of his black horse. He snarled, "You're my prisoner now. It would be in your best interest if you behave. Otherwise, I'll be forced to kill you."

       Death cocked his head up and laughed. "Do you think this flimsy strap could hold me? I'm no one's prisoner! I am Death, and I will be the one to kill you."

       Methos gave him a smug smile. "You're welcome to try. I am much more resilient than you think."

       Nearing the Immortal's horse, a wicked grin formed on Death's lips. "Do you mind if I put that notion to the test?"

       Suddenly, the strap just fell loose that Death's right hand was freed. Before he could release his other hand as well, Methos jerked hard on the band that it tightened around his wrist. The sudden movement startled Hesperus that he reared up, his hooves flailing in the air. Grabbing the reins, the smith tried to control the horse, but it was difficult, especially when he had a killer desperate to break free.

       Unknown to the two men, dark clouds were gathering high above them. Sharp forks of lightning crisscrossed the skies.

       "Give in!" Death shouted as he pulled at his bonds. "I could give you a swift end. It wouldn't be as painful as having your head bashed in by a horse's hooves."

       "NEVER!" Methos roared. "I WILL NEVER GIVE IN! I WILL NOT LET YOU GO!"

       "These bonds will not hold me for long! SURRENDER NOW!"

       "Maybe not," answered the Immortal, as a sense of calm fell over him. "But there are other ties that could."

       Lifting his eyes to the stormy skies, Methos began to pray, "God in heaven! Hear my prayer! Help me end the killings! Let me be bound to this man who is the mirror of my being! Mind to mind! Heart to heart! Soul to soul!"

       "NOOO!" Death screamed in rage. "NEVER!"

       Feeling Death's bonds loosen, Methos cried, "I BEG YOU, LORD! LET YOUR WILL BE DONE!"

       At these words, lightning snaked down from the sky and struck the two men. Feeling the jolt of electricity, the stallion jerked his reins out of the blacksmith's hand and galloped a short distance away.

       As the raw power from the heavens coursed through their bodies, Methos felt a part of his Quickening pulled from him, entering Death's body. The Quickening zipped back and forth between them. The agony was more than they could bear that they screamed.

       In their pain, they didn't notice the gold buckles of the handfasting band begin to melt. Guided by a higher power, the metal wrapped around their wrists, molding into bracelets. Tiny lightning bolts etched intricate designs into the bands. The bonding accomplished, the power surge stopped. Both Methos and Death collapsed lifeless to the ground.

       Night had already fallen when Methos awoke. As he slowly sat up, he felt the bracelet wrapped snuggly around his wrist. Raising his hand, the Immortal looked at it curiously. The gold band was decorated with tongues of red flame. Gazing down at the band around Death's wrist, it was decorated with the intricate blue flakes of snow.

       _Fire and ice, _Methos mused. _So we're bound together now._

       Standing, the Immortal went to get Death's white steed. Probably recognizing what he had once been, the horse obediently followed him. After securing the mare's reins to his horse, Methos gathered the young man's things and placed them inside his saddlebag. The curved blade he sheathed in the harness, while he tied his own Ivanhoe to his back. He then lifted Death onto his saddle. Methos brought them to his home in the forest.

       Carrying the young man inside, he laid him on his bed. The Immortal opened a trap door under the table, revealing a chest. Taking Death's clothes, sword and the Ivanhoe, he placed them inside the chest, closing the lid with a large lock. He then sealed the trap door.

       Taking a chair, Methos sat down and waited.

       Two hours later, the man gasped in searing air, as he woke from First Death. There was such bewilderment in his dark brown eyes as he looked at his surroundings. The absence of the murderous light in his orbs relieved Methos.

       "What happened to me?" he asked in confusion.

        "You were hit by lightning," Methos replied.

       "Where am I?"

       "You're in my..." The Immortal hastily amended, "You're in our home."

       "Our home?"

       "Yes. Don't you remember?"

       The young man shook his head. "Are we...are we brothers?"

       "No. We're handfasted to each other." Methos placed his banded wrist next to the other man's. "See?"

       "We're...lovers?" he queried in disbelief. "It couldn't be!"

       Methos tried to look hurt. "I'm afraid it's true. The lightning must have affected your memory. Give it time, you'll remember soon enough."

       There was such sorrow in the young man's eyes. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. If we are lovers, I wish I could remember. I don't..." Such a lovely smile curled up his lips that Methos felt his heart skip a beat. "I don't even remember your name."

       "I'm Methos."

       "What about my name?"

       The Immortal shook his head. "No. I won't tell you that. It doesn't take much effort to remember one's name." He urged, "Go on! Think! What is your name?"

       A frown formed on the man's face as he closed his eyes and struggled to remember. After a few minutes, he opened them again. There was such aching shyness in those doe eyes.

       "I... I think my name is Duncan. Duncan MacLeod."

       Methos smiled. "Yes! Oh yes! Duncan MacLeod. That is your name."     



	3. Chapter 3

 

**CHAPTER THREE**

 

       Methos was roused from his peaceful slumber by the sounds of destruction and chaos. Getting to his feet, he ran towards the door. The sounds were coming from the stables. Swiftly, the Immortal headed for the stables and went inside.

       The white mare was in a rampage, her eyes burning with hellfire. She was rearing up on hind legs, kicking up a storm. Methos' stallion was blocking her path, fighting the mare for all its worth. Glancing down, Methos saw Duncan huddled fearfully in the corner, holding his bleeding right arm. It was obvious that the horse was trying to kill him.

       Knowing that it was Duncan's steed that must be stopped, the smith grabbed a rope and tied it into a lasso. Carefully, he eased closer to the warring horses, twirling the lasso in his hand. When he at last found an opening, Methos hurled it, the loop landing right through the mare's neck. Jerking hard on the rope, the noose tightened.

       "WHOA!" Methos shouted as he struggled desperately with the wild animal. "WHOA, GIRL!" But the mare would not stop.

       Realizing that he had no other choice but to try and tame her, the Immortal leapfrogged on her back. Just as his hand gripped his makeshift reins, the mare began to buck wildly, determined to throw her rider off. With a strong kick, the horse ripped the stable door off its hinges and galloped into the corral, bucking and kicking fiercely. The steed even dropped to the ground, wanting to crush her rider. Methos, however, twisted his body out of the way in time.

       Suddenly, the horse launched into a full gallop, heading straight for the fence. Before Methos could get a tighter grip, the mare stopped abruptly. The momentum sent him flying through the air. Falling hard to the ground, Methos felt the wind knocked out of him. He could only manage to turn onto his back and watch as the mare reared up, ready to stomp him to death.

       "NO! STOP!"

       Duncan placed himself between the horse and Methos, his arms raised at his sides.

       "DUNCAN, GET OUT OF THE WAY!" the Immortal cried.

       But the Highlander stood his ground. From his position, Methos could not see the young man's face. It was fortunate that he couldn't. Duncan was glaring at the mare, his eyes glowing like smoldering embers.

       His baritone voice assuming an even deeper tone, the Scot growled, "HEED MY COMMAND, VENGANZA! I ORDER YOU TO STOP! NOW!"

       _Venganza. Vengeance, _Methos thought. _An appropriate name._

       At that firm command, the mare calmed down, bowing her head in submission to her master.

       "Duncan?" Methos asked worriedly, fearful that Death had resurfaced once more.

       The strain of establishing control over the horse was too much for the Highlander. To Methos' shock, Duncan fell into a heap on the ground.

 

       Methos was cleaning the blood off the Scot's arm when Duncan opened his eyes.

       Smiling, he greeted cheerfully, "Good morning!"

       There was great concern in the Highlander's dark brown orbs. "Methos, are you all right? The horse! She didn't hurt you, did she?"

       "I think I should be the one asking those questions."

       Duncan sighed. "I'm sorry. I woke up early this morning. Since you were still asleep, I thought I'd look around and see if I could remember something. When I went inside the stables, I saw the mare. Something told me she was my horse. But when I tried to touch her, she just lashed out at me. Her eyes...they were burning with fire! I tried to get away but she had me trapped. And my arm..."

       The Scot quickly glanced down only to find that the gash was gone. "I had a large cut," he exclaimed, feeling the unbroken skin. "What happened to it?"

       Methos calmly pulled out his dagger. "This is what happened to it." He then cut his left palm open.

       "METHOS!" Duncan exclaimed as he sat up, taking the Immortal's bleeding hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

       "Look at it, Duncan."

       As the Highlander gazed at it, sparks of light crisscrossed over the wound, healing it. Duncan touched the skin, but there was no trace of the cut. He looked questioningly at the older man.

       "We're Immortal," explained Methos. "We cannot die unless someone takes our head."

       "I don't understand."

       It took several hours for the Old Man to explain to the Scot the nature of their being. He told him about the Rules of the Game that he was now a part of - they could only fight one on one, never on Holy Ground. The winner takes his enemy's head and his power. In the end, there can be only one.

       Duncan shuddered visibly. "All that fighting, the killings, and for eternity? I don't think I could live like that."

       "Of course it won't always be like that! Just look at me, MacLeod. I'm the oldest of our kind living on this earth. But I live a very peaceful life here..." He caressed the younger man's cheek. "...with you."

       There was such relief on Duncan's face. "I'm so glad. I could never take another person's life. EVER!" He then flung his arms around the ancient's neck. "And don't you dare hurt yourself again!"

       Methos wished he could share the younger man's relief.

       _How would you feel, __Duncan__, if you learn that you may have slaughtered hundreds of innocent people? _The Immortal closed his eyes, as he felt the cold finger of the Master touch his spine. _No! I swear I won't let you become Death again! You will never be the Master's servant!_

 

       Unknown to the two men, the Master was observing them through his scrying pool.

       "Do you think you could keep him away from me, Methos?"  he muttered, an evil grin on his face. "Sooner or later, Duncan MacLeod will be no more and Death will ride again."

       The Master touched the handsome profile of the Highlander's face. But his fingers disturbed the water that the vision vanished with the ripples.

       As he leaned back against his chair, he said, "For now, he is yours, my ancient warrior! Play with him! Do with him as you will! You might as well know the exquisite pleasures the Highlander has to offer!"

       Saying this, the Master burst into raucous laughter, pleased with the game he has set into motion.     



	4. Chapter 4

 

**CHAPTER FOUR**

 

       _How could I have forgotten this life? _Duncan thought in bliss, as he repaired a tack. _How could I have forgotten him?_

       It's been three months since the lightning strike. The Scot's memory still hasn't returned to him, and Duncan didn't even make any effort to try to remember. He was very happy, content with the life he has now. Somehow, he had an inkling that his life hadn't always been like this. But he was satisfied now, and he didn't want anything else...except for one.

       Duncan gazed fondly at Methos. The elder Immortal was busy at his forge, building up the fire in the furnace. His slender form belied his true capabilities. Well-honed muscles hardened as he worked the bellows, his sweat glistening on his ivory skin.

       _He's so beautiful, _the Highlander mused appreciatively. Swiftly, he added, _Of course, he's beautiful on the inside as well._

       Indeed, Methos had been very patient, taking things one step at a time. Rather than press the issue of their being handfasted, the blacksmith was satisfied with the friendship that had developed between them. They helped each other at the smithy, taking turns with the light and heavy work. Household chores even proved to be a joy. The two men would clean the house and the stables together. They would even make the trek to the stream to wash their clothes. There was only one chore, however, that Duncan would not let Methos do, namely cook. It suited the smith just fine. The Scot proved to be a much better cook than he is.

       Lately, however, the Highlander found himself wishing for more in their relationship. He had to admit he didn't trust the ancient at first. But now, watching Methos slaving away at the forge, Duncan knew he had fallen in love with the older man.

       At that moment, Methos turned and noticed the attentive stare the Scot was giving him. There was even a dreamy smile on his lips.

       Curiously, he queried, "Why are you looking at me that way, Duncan?"

       Hearing those words, Duncan turned visibly pale as a throbbing ache pierced his brow. Clasping his head, he closed his eyes as the visions struck.

 

       _Darkness. Screaming. Wailing. The absence of light and the cacophony of torment assaulted his senses._

       He was lying on something soft. But it was wet and sticky. It had a stink that revolted him.

       Then, a face loomed above him. A face painted white and blue. It was staring down at him, the eyes ablaze with hellfire.

       "Why are you looking at me that way?" he asked, the brogue heavy in his child's voice.

       Suddenly, there was nothing but pain.

 

       Duncan's eyes snapped open, a gasp escaping his lips.

       "Are you all right?" Methos was sitting beside him, holding him like spun glass. "What happened to you?"

       "I don't know. I'm not even sure," he stammered in confusion.

       There was a strange expression on the ancient's face. "Was it...was it a memory?"

       "I don't know, and I don't want to remember. It frightened me. Those terrible sounds. That face, that awful face. And...and the pain..."

       Methos embraced him comfortingly. "It's all right. I'm here. No one's going to hurt you."

       Duncan clung tightly to the ancient, relishing the musky scent of the drying sweat on Methos' skin. "I'm afraid. I'm so afraid. My past...it frightens me."

       "What is past is past. It has no bearing on what we are now to each other."

       The Scot gently pulled away. "You wouldn't keep secrets from me now, would you, Methos? If something terrible happened to me before, you would tell me."

       "I have no reason to keep your past a secret from you," Methos lied under his teeth. "If I could, I would tell you. But I never wanted to pry into your private life before we met. It's...it's just not my way."

       Duncan nodded. "I understand. Even if you did pry, I probably wouldn't have told you anyway." There was a hopeful twinkle in his eye. "Methos, may I ask you something?"

       "If it is in my power to answer," the blacksmith began gallantly, "I don't see why not. What do you want to know?"

       Twiddling his fingers nervously, the Highlander stuttered, "You...you said we're handfasted."

       "Uhmmm...yes."

       "So that means we're lovers, right?"

       "Well yes, we are."

       "Then, we've been...you know...doing IT."

       "Yes, we've been doing it." Even Methos was getting nervous with this line of questioning.

       "So why aren't you making love to me now?"

       That innocent query caught Methos totally off guard. In truth, he has been tempted several times to demand his marital privilege from the Scot. He had even come close to actually forcing himself upon Duncan. What stopped him was the simple fact that he did not have any right to ask that of Duncan. True, they were bound by a Divine Handfasting, but it was a bond of necessity. Methos couldn't take advantage of the Highlander's amnesia to get what he desired.

       "Methos?" Duncan's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Aren't you going to answer my question?"

       The ancient quickly stood up and went to the far corner of the smithy. Leaning against the post, he breathed in deeply. "It wouldn't be right."

       "If we're lovers, why would it not 'be right'?"

       "Duncan," Methos began patiently, trying to hide the passions the Scot's questions aroused in him, "you've lost your memory. I cannot take advantage of your mental incapacity to have sex with you."

       "I don't mind, Methos. Truly. I feel like I've been shirking in my duty towards you."

       "That's another thing. I don't like it to be a duty on your part. That is a clear sign that you don't trust me."

       "But I do..."

       Methos raised a hand, halting the younger man's words. "Let me finish. There is no love if there is no trust. I prefer that you get to know me a little better first."

       A sullen pout formed on the Highlander's full lips. The ancient wanted so much to kiss him, to ease the hurt he had caused.

       Looking at Methos with sorrow in his eyes, Duncan said firmly, "I know how I feel about you. I know I love you. But what about you? Don't you love me, Methos? Am I not attractive to you anymore?"

       The Old Man couldn't help the laughter that escaped his lips. "Of course I still love you. But how could you be so sure that you love me?"

       Duncan slowly rose to his feet, laying the tack on the bench. As he walked towards Methos, he replied, "I know what my heart is telling me. Though memory fails, the heart never forgets. I do love you, Methos."

       The ancient felt his breath catch in his throat as the Scot stood before him, his deep brown eyes boring into his hazel orbs.

       Leaning forward, Duncan whispered, "If you will not make love to me, please let me make love to you."

       When their lips met, at first, the smith stiffened. But the Highlander was so tender, savoring the taste of the man whom he thought was his lover. Methos felt like he was a drowning man, hungry for air. As he parted his lips to breathe, Duncan gently insinuated his tongue inside, tasting the moist cavern of his mouth. That teasing tongue finally broke Methos' control. Pressing Duncan's tongue between his lips, he sucked on it eagerly, enjoying the flavors of the Scot.

       With much reluctance, Duncan broke the kiss and pressed his lips on Methos' neck, nuzzling in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. His hands found the open V of the ancient's shirt, opening it wider until the shirt fell from his shoulders and down his arms, the garment at his wrists. Slowly, the Scot went lower, showering butterfly kisses upon the ivory skin.

       "You're so beautiful," Duncan murmured, his hands caressing the firm pectorals. "Just like a living statue."

       Methos shuddered as the Highlander's tormenting mouth enveloped his nipple. Laving and sucking on the tiny nub caused his organ to jut up proudly, the head poking at his young lover's belly.

       Duncan giggled as he saw the prominent bulge in the older man's breeches. "Eager thing, aren't you? Well, you'll just have to wait your turn."

       The ancient groaned as the Scot teased the other nipple. "God, Duncan! Have mercy, please!"

       Grinning with a hard nub between his teeth, Duncan mumbled, "Oh, all right!"

       Descending further, the Highlander licked the sweat from Methos' belly, his tongue poking the navel. Finally reaching his lover's crotch, he freed Methos' erection from within the confines of his trousers.

       Gazing appreciatively at the silken iron before his eyes, Duncan said in wonder, "How could I have forgotten this?" Cupping the hefty balls in their large sac in his hands, the young man pressed his face to the long shaft, raining kisses from the base going to the head. At the tip, Duncan pinched the foreskin and pulled it back, revealing the weeping rose inside.

       As Methos watched, the Scot took his cock between his lips. He cried out in pleasure as Duncan devoured him whole, his member sliding down the velvet moistness of his throat. Duncan tormented Methos with his mouth and throat, tightening his muscles around the shaft. When the Highlander's tongue licked the length, the Old Man screamed. Gripping the younger man's hair, Methos pulled Duncan's head back so he could fuck that lovely mouth. The Scot held on to his lover's hips.

       Methos' thrusts became fast and furious. _Lord, he's a natural at this!  _  he groaned inwardly as Duncan adjusted to the pounding pace of the ancient. Coming at last, Methos screamed as he gushed his fluids inside the Scot's mouth. Duncan swallowed the blacksmith's seed hungrily, some of it spilling down the corners of his mouth. When the younger man withdrew, Methos was panting for breath.

       Then, Duncan spoke, and that deep, husky voice caused the breath to catch in the smith's throat. "Was it good for you as it was for me?"

       As Methos glanced down, the Highlander opened his eyes, hellfire burning in them. There was a wicked grin on Duncan's face as he stood up, hands digging into the ancient's hips.

       "My turn now!" he declared.

       Methos found himself forced back against the post, Duncan's strong grip raising him that he was standing on the tips of his toes. His legs were parted and a finger sought the orifice between his legs. When the Scot found his quarry, he unlaced his own breeches to free his stiff rod. Lifting Methos high, positioning him above his erection, Duncan swiftly brought the Old Man down. Feeling himself impaled, Methos screamed.

       As Duncan thrust into him, the ancient gasped in pain. A slight brush to his prostate brought a respite of pleasure, but the agony overwhelmed him.

       "Duncan, please!" begged Methos as his hands reached high and grasped the post behind him, seeking balance. "Not too fast! You're hurting me!"

 

       _"You're hurting me! No more! Please!"_

       A beautiful brown-haired woman was struggling in his arms. He was thrusting in wild abandon inside her bruised flesh. His hand reached for her breast and squeezed it hard that she screamed in pain.

       "Stop it! Leave my wife alone!" her husband, a bald man, cried. He was hanging from chains attached to the wall.

       A smile formed on his lips. "If that is your wish." Taking his dagger, he plunged it between the woman's breasts. The woman didn't even cry out. She just breathed a relieved sigh and fell dead in his arms.

       "DOMINIQUE!" the man shouted. "You bastard! You murdered my wife! DOMINIQUE!"

       Getting to his feet, he picked up his sword and gutted the man, sending him to an eternity of silence.

       "I hate the noise," he commented. Gazing down at the blade, he grimaced. "Damn! Blood on it again!"

       Suddenly, a strong force struck him from behind, sending him flying. He landed flat on his back on a bed covered with blood. He felt someone climbing on the bed. He wanted to flee, but an invisible force pinned him down.

       Then, the painted face loomed above him and callused hands spread his thighs wide apart.

       Feeling something hard enter him, he screamed, "You're hurting me!"

 

       Just as the memory vanished, Duncan's vision cleared. He gaped in horror at the anguish on Methos' face. Roughly pulling out of the older man caused Methos to cry out in pain. The ancient sank to the floor in weariness. Duncan was horrified at the sight of the blood between the smith's legs. Then, to his shock, Methos began to laugh.

       "I only told you to slow down," he declared. "I never said you should stop."

       Duncan couldn't believe what he was hearing. He couldn't speak. He just stood above Methos, shaking his head.

       Noting the young man's silence, Methos turned to look at him. He was stunned by the guilt he saw in the Highlander's eyes.

       "Duncan?"

       The Scot burst into tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I swear it won't happen again." Saying this, he swiftly ran outside the smithy.

       Methos stood up, not minding the soreness between his legs, and followed his lover.

       The Highlander was kneeling on the ground, his arms wrapped around his trembling form. Methos approached and squatted down before him.

       "Please don't cry, Duncan," he whispered soothingly. "I'm not angry with you. I understand. You lost control." Methos shuddered at the memory of those blazing eyes. "We all get carried away by our passions sometimes."

       "No, you don't understand!" Duncan exclaimed in despair. "I had a vision again. I raped someone. A woman! I made her husband watch! After I was done, I killed them both."

       "MacLeod, memories are tricky things. Maybe you witnessed this...this atrocity, or someone told you about this crime. It has become etched in your mind that you think you killed two people."

       "No!" the Highlander argued. "I know I killed them! Their blood is on my hands! And I liked it! I liked the smell of their blood! God, Methos! Who am I? Am I a monster?"

       Methos hugged him tightly. "No, you're not a monster! You're my lover, and I'll keep on saying it until you believe it!"

       Almost hesitantly, the Scot whispered, "I saw something else too."

       "What is it? What did you see?"

       "The man with the painted face. I saw him again." Duncan buried his face in the ancient's shoulder. "Methos... I...I think he raped me."

 

       That night, while the Highlander was washing the dishes, Methos went out for a stroll. Climbing the fence of the corral, he sat down on top and stared at the crescent moon. His thoughts, however, were on the young man inside the house.

       Remembering what happened earlier in the smithy, Methos mused, _Who are you, MacLeod? It's like there are two people inside you - Death, the cold blooded killer and Duncan, whose gentle, honorable heart could not stand even the mere idea of hurting someone. For now, your good side has the upper hand. But with every flash of the past that returns to you, Death surfaces, growing stronger each time. When that time comes, what's going to happen to us? I can't bear the thought of losing you to the Master. I just can't._

       "Methos?" Duncan's voice snapped him out of his reverie. Turning, he saw the Highlander standing at the open door. "It's cold out here! Aren't you going to come in yet?" Duncan began hesitantly, "If you're afraid of me, I could sleep in the barn."

       _So thoughtful, so kind, so loving._ A smile formed on Methos' lips. "You're not going to sleep in the barn. I'm coming."      __  



	5. Chapter 5

 

**CHAPTER FIVE**

 

       "Hmmm! What is happening here?" the Master declared in curiosity.

       The waters of his scrying pool showed Methos hitching up Hesperus to his wagon. At the back was a plow he had repaired. Duncan stood beside him, a small bundle in his hands. When blacksmith got on board, the Highlander handed the bundle to him. There was a warm smile on his face as he leaned down and kissed Duncan on the lips.

       As Methos rode off, the Master laughed. "So, you're leaving the Scot at home, all alone. Let's make things interesting for you. How about a surprise, a wonderful surprise you just can't refuse when you get back!"

       Seeing Duncan wave, he muttered, "We're going to heat things up, my boy."

       With a small gesture, the vision in the scrying pool changed, revealing the stall where Duncan's horse stood. Sensing the Master's presence, the mare's eyes flared a bright red.

       "It's that time again, Venganza," the Master exclaimed. "Why don't you enjoy yourself for a change? And maybe you could show MacLeod exactly what he's been missing."

       As the mare whinnied in assent, the Master cocked his head up and burst into raucous laughter.

 

       Duncan was whistling as he cleaned the stables. For some strange reason, he felt very uneasy, not to mention very hot. It didn't help any that, for the last hour or so, Venganza was in Hesperus' stall, stirring up hay and just being totally disagreeable.

       "Is something wrong, girl?" he asked the mare.

       There was silence. Then, Venganza's eyes peeked at the top of the partition and slowly went down again. For a moment, the Scot thought he saw a red gleam in them.

       "Venganza, what is it?" Duncan forced down his fear as he cautiously made his way towards the stall. "Is the weather bothering you? It is rather hot. I could get you water."

       Peering in the stall, the mare was sniffing and snorting at the hay. She was restlessly kicking up some dried straw. Duncan knew Venganza was in heat. Feeling relieved, he went towards the horse, rubbing her side.

       Holding her bridle, the Highlander gently pulled on it, saying "Come on, girl! The air would do you good."

       But the mare would not budge.

       "Venganza!" he tugged harder. "Come on!"

       Suddenly, Venganza faced him, revealing the blazing hellfire in her eyes. Before Duncan could flee, the horse swung her head and pushed him into the corner of the stall. When he tried to move past her, Venganza reared up, her hooves flying. The Highlander was trapped. The mare moved closer, her eyes aflame, locking gazes with the Scot's terrified orbs.

 

       The Master was looking at Duncan through Venganza's eyes. Seeing the fear on the Scot's face, he mumbled, "You look so beautiful when you're frightened, MacLeod." Slowly, he raised his hand to the young man's image, the mare's head moving at the same time. "How I long to touch you once more."

 

       "NO!" Duncan closed his eyes as the mare nuzzled at his throat, sniffing his hair. A cold nose brushed his cheek.

       Feeling Venganza withdraw, he opened his eyes only to see the mare nudging his shirt open with her nose. The Highlander made to pull it close, but the horse snapped at him. Hands frozen at his sides, he could only watch helplessly as the mare opened his shirt, baring his chest. Duncan shuddered all over as Venganza sniffed his skin. Her cold, moist nose settled over a nipple, blowing glowing red fumes on the hardening nub. A whimper escaped the Scot's lips as a delicious warmth filled him. Moving to the other nipple, she breathed on it as well, the red mist forming tiny fingers that pinched the tit.

       Gasping, Duncan glanced down, thinking that the horse had nipped the tiny bud, but Venganza was just breathing on it. However, he could feel invisible fingers playing with him, fondling him. Worse, it was arousing him to a fever pitch.

       "Sweet Jesus, help me!" the Highlander sobbed as the mare's head descended to his crotch. Feeling Venganza touch his trapped erection with her nose, he cried, "Stop it!"

       The Scot tried to escape, but the mare butted him face first to the wall. At once, an invisible force pinned him in place.

       "You're so beautiful," an echoing voice whispered in the wind.

       "Who are you?" shouted Duncan. "Why are you doing this to me?"

       The heat of Venganza's breath excited every inch of his back, causing the goose bumps to rise. The Highlander could feel the heat permeate his clothing, teasing his narrow waist before going down to the round buttocks.

       "Oh, MacLeod!" the voice murmured, dripping with lust. "Have you completely forgotten what we meant to each other?"

       To Duncan's horror, a velvety tongue licked his rump, poking the crack between his asscheeks.

       Feeling the pressure holding him ease a bit, the Scot wrenched free and fled from the stables. Going back inside the house, he quickly closed the door. His hands trembled as he reached for his cup, filling it with water from the pitcher. Duncan drank it down, but it did not quench his thirst. He continued refilling his cup and drinking its contents, up to the point that he had drained the pitcher, but to no avail.

       Duncan paced back and forth, his sweat trickling from his body, soaking his clothes. "It's so hot! Why is it so hot?"

       In desperation, the Highlander tore off all his clothing. The cool air, however, did nothing to quell the fires raging inside him. Instead, it only stoked the passions engulfing him that an eerie red glow began to surround him. Worse, ghostly hands caressed his shivering flesh, fingers pinching and poking his sensitive spots.

       "Whoever you are," he cried in terror, "don't do this to me! Please!"

       Lascivious laughter answered his pleas.

       Weeping, Duncan sank to the floor, curling up into a tight ball as the spectral hands continued to torment him.

       Tears trickling down his cheeks, all he could do was cry "No, no, no!" over and over again.

       "What do I have to do to make you stop?" the Highlander asked. "What do I have to do?"

       Duncan winced as a hard hand slapped his rump.

       "I think you know the answer to that," said the Master.

 

       Night had already fallen and the full moon was shining overhead when Methos arrived at the farm. Just as he freed Hesperus from the harness, the stallion swiftly galloped to the stables.

       "What's your hurry?" Methos called, surprised by the horse's behavior.

       Rather than satisfy his curiosity, the blacksmith decided to go inside the house instead. The sight that greeted him stunned Methos.

       "Duncan?" was all he could say.

 

       Inside the stables, a sensual dance was taking place between the two horses. Like a coquette, Venganza shied away from Hesperus' advances. Later, however, it was the mare that became aggressive, nudging the stallion eagerly.

 

       "Duncan, what..."

       The Highlander stood up, his naked body glistening in the light of the fire. There was such anguish on his face and he moved with the sluggishness of the drugged.

       "Methos, help me!" Duncan begged him. "I feel so hot!"

       Touching his forehead, Methos exclaimed, "You're burning with fever!"

       "No," the Scot shook his head. "It's more than a fever."

       Taking the ancient's hand, Duncan pressed his palm over his hard member. Methos snatched his hand back like he had been burned.

       Dropping to his knees, the young man gazed up at his lover, a tear falling from his right eye. His hands gripped the slender hips.

       "I beg you, Methos! Please!"

       As the ancient watched, the Highlander spread his knees apart and took his erection in his right hand, pumping it furiously. With his left hand, he held on to Methos' hip, using the older man as support. Moaning, Duncan stroked his cock with languid motions, moving his hips.

       "Methos!" the Scot whispered the elder's name. "Oh, Methos!"

       The smith just found himself going down on his knees before Duncan, gently prying the young man's fingers off his cock.

       "No," Duncan shook his head as Methos removed his hand. Then, he cried out in relief and pleasure when the ancient replaced it with his own firm grip.

       With such aching gracefulness, Duncan thrust into Methos' hand that was milking his cock. It didn't take long for the Scot to come, spurting his juices on the ancient's shirt and crotch.

       Feeling the wetness on his clothing, Methos thought the Highlander had burnt out the fires raging inside him. But there was such agony in the Scot's eyes as he shook his head in dismay.

       "It's not enough!" he cried. "It's not enough!"

       Strong hands pushed Methos down on the floor.

       "Duncan!" the Old Man exclaimed, as fumbling hands untied his breeches. _God, he's going to rape me! _But the Scot merely freed his sex.

       "You're not ready yet," said Duncan, seeing that his lover's cock was in a semi-erect state. Taking the member in his hand, he squeezed it gently.

       Methos writhed and groaned as the Highlander pumped his rod with strong, steady strokes, like an expert blacksmith of silken iron, until his cock was as hard and proud as his own sword.

       Then, Duncan straddled Methos' hips, positioning himself over that stiff rod.

 

       In the barn, Hesperus couldn't take the mare's teasing any longer. Trapping Venganza in her own stall, the stallion stood up on his hind legs and mounted her.

 

       Methos gasped as Duncan impaled himself on his cock. There was such tremendous pressure as the Scot tried to squeeze the bulbous head into his tiny rosebud. There was a snap when Methos breached the ring of muscle. At the same time, Duncan screamed in agony.

       "Easy, Duncan!" the ancient soothed his weeping lover. "Don't rush it! It won't hurt if you take it slow!"

       As the Highlander drove Methos' organ deeper and deeper inside him, the Scot's husky reply was not what he expected.

       "I can't," Duncan moaned. "I need the pain."

       As the two horses began to move faster and faster, so did the Highlander's pace gradually quicken. Methos tried to slow Duncan down, seeing the agony in the young man's face, but there was no stopping the Scot. All he could do was lie back and, he hated to admit it, enjoy the ride.

       Suddenly, however, the Old Man felt his vision dim. Blinking hard, he saw that the lighting had somehow changed, that the room had darkened and it was Duncan who was glowing with an unearthly light. The Highlander was moving in a graceful ballet, head thrown back, his sable hair flying. Beads of sweat sparkled in the air like diamonds. Duncan's chest was arched forward. The sight of those firm pectorals and their taut nipples mesmerized Methos, wanting so much to touch them.

       Acting on his desires, the ancient raised both of his hands, and was surprised to find that his fingernails were painted black and sharpened into claws. With the pads of his fingers, he caressed the firm muscles of the Highlander's chest, cupping the mounds. Going down to the nipples, he traced the dark outline of the areola with his nails. Then, he pressed the tiny nubs between his fingers, squeezing and pulling the tips.

       Duncan whimpered in pleasure, continuing to buck on the older man's rod. Gazing down at his lover, his eyes widened in shock, for lying beneath him was the man with the painted face.

       "Nooo!" the Scot exclaimed in disbelief as he tried to squirm away. But the man gripped his hips tightly.

       There was such an evil grin on his face. "Don't stop what you can't finish, MacLeod!"

       Saying this, the man fiercely thrust upward, driving his cock deep into the tender flesh above him. Duncan screamed.

       Methos himself couldn't understand what was happening to his lover. He had seen the fear in the Highlander's eyes. When Duncan pulled away, he felt a painful yank on his cock that he had to grab the young man's hips to keep him in place until he had softened enough to withdraw. But the Scot was struggling to break free.

       The smith wanted to caress Duncan's face, to soothe the fears away. Instead, those horrible hands went up, the claws glistening. To his horror, he buried his claws into the Highlander's chest, creating deep bloody furrows on the skin. The Scot whimpered in pain.

       Then, he saw a forked tongue snake out, licking away the blood as blue light healed the wounds.

       "No!" Methos gasped as his eyes focused on those tiny nipples once more. "Lord no!"

       As he looked on, the forked tongue curled up into itself, becoming thinner and thinner, until it was a long needle. Quick as lightning, the needle jabbed into the tips of Duncan's tits, that an agonized scream escaped the younger man's lips. As blood trickled from the wounded nubs, Methos found himself sitting up, pulling the Scot close to him. Eagerly, he bent down, pressing his lips to the nipples, and began to suck, at the same time, thrusting hard and fast into the Highlander.

       Duncan shuddered in terror and revulsion as the man with the painted face suckled on his breast. His cock seemed too big for his channel all of a sudden. Already, he could feel his flesh tearing just to accommodate the huge rod that was ramming into him.

       Unknown to the two men, the bracelets on their wrists began to glow, gradually increasing in brightness, surrounding them in a dazzling white aura.

       "Help me!" the Highlander wept, lost in his agony. "Mother, please make him stop hurting me! Oh God! Please help me!"

       Hearing the Scot's plea, Methos' eyes flew wide open. At the sight of his lover's pain, a part of his soul traversed the link that existed between them. The ancient just found himself looking through Duncan's doe eyes.

       "Methos..." Duncan felt his lover's presence inside his mind.

       But the smith didn't answer him, gazing down at the beast who held his lover in his arms. It was then that the monster looked up, a tiny bud nipped between his teeth, leering at him. The shock of seeing that face sent Methos reeling back into his own body. With a fierce shove, the Old Man flung the Highlander from him, causing both men to scream at the force of their withdrawal.

       As Methos sat up, he found that he still possessed a small measure of that strange vision. Lying before the dying fire of the fireplace were alternating images of a grown man and a child. Blinking several times, the ancient saw that Duncan was curled up before him, knees drawn towards his chest.

       Though there was obvious fear in his eyes towards the man he thought he was handfasted to, Duncan managed a relieved smile to form on his lips.

       "Thank you," he said, shaking with sobs. "I don't know what came over me, but thank you, Methos, for saving me."

       Methos found himself weeping as he gathered the terrified Highlander into his arms.

       _What is there for you to be grateful for, __Duncan__? _he thought bitterly. _I hurt you. Sometime in the past, I hurt you!_

The ancient shivered inwardly, recalling the image he had seen through Duncan's eyes. The man with the painted face. Death. It was his own savage visage he had seen.


	6. Chapter 6

 

** CHAPTER SIX **

 

        A week passed since that night, but Methos still didn't have a clue as to what caused the frenzied arousal in his lover. He had asked the Scot about it. Duncan, however, refused to tell him everything.

       "I..." said the Highlander hesitantly. "I was just carried away by my passions."

       Seeing the obvious fear in the younger man's eyes, he chose not to pry.

       One morning, Methos had just finished hitching up Hesperus to his wagon for a trip into town when he saw Duncan standing at the doorway. The Scot was dressed in the clothes the blacksmith had bought for him during his last trip to the village - a light brown shirt, deep blue kilt and black leather boots. That was the reason for his delay in returning home that night.

       Methos couldn't help but gaze appreciatively at the young man. _He looks like a prince. _  Then his mind conjured up a most "unprincely" image of Duncan kneeling at his feet, naked, as he masturbated before the ancient. Methos quickly shook the vision away as the Highlander approached.

       "You look wonderful, Duncan," he remarked, grinning.

       A blush formed on his cheeks. "Thank you," Duncan answered shyly. "Methos, may I come with you? Please?"

       "It's just a short trip to the village. I really won't be gone long."

       Then, the Scot spied Venganza looking at them from the open door of the stable. There was a red gleam in her eyes.

       Frightened, Duncan declared, "Please Methos? I promise I won't be a bother to you. Just don't leave me here all alone again."

       In his haste to get away from the mare, Duncan didn't realize that he had already clambered on board the wagon and was seated beside the older man. He flushed a deep red, seeing the curious frown on Methos' brow.

       "I'm sorry," he said sheepishly, twisting his body to the right so his foot could reach the step. "I'm going down now."

       That movement caused a good length of his kilt to be caught on his right knee, that a smooth left thigh was bared for Methos' perusal.

       Taking Duncan's hand, the ancient said, "No, you can come along with me."

       As the Highlander settled on the seat once more, he saw that his kilt was still raised at his left thigh. Bringing his hand down, Duncan's fingers encountered Methos' knuckles, who was also hastening to fix the wayward garment.

       "Allow me," Methos murmured, pulling the kilt down, his fingers trembling as he tried to avoid contact with the bare skin.

       Instead, Duncan pressed his hand down over Methos',  that half of the smith's palm lay over his kilt while the other half lay on his thigh.

       There was a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Methos, I don't want you to be afraid to touch me. I won't deny you this small thing."

       "But Duncan I..."

       "If you're worried about what happened that night, I assure you it won't happen again." Duncan smiled warmly. "You made sure of that. There's a link between us. I felt you inside my mind. You saw the beast. It was his doing. I'm so glad you drove him away."

       "Yes, you're right. He won't be bothering us again," Methos replied, lowering his gaze. _Because I am the_ beast. With a flick of the reins, he urged Hesperus to a slow walk. _The beast won't be bothering you_ again as long as I keep my passions under control. Lord, when did I first meet you? When did I hurt you? There have been so many, I couldn't remember the faces. How could I forget yours? Now, here you are, following in my footsteps. If I have to remain celibate to keep your evil nature from resurfacing, then so be it.

       However, halfway down the road, unknown to Methos, he had raised his right hand and laid it over Duncan's kilt, hitching up the garment so that he had access to the young man's thigh.

       Duncan was surprised when he glanced down to find the ancient's hand stroking and squeezing his thigh. At first, he wanted to tell Methos, but the blacksmith was deep in thought. Instead, the Highlander just sat back and enjoyed the scenery, as well as the comforting feel of his lover's hand on his skin.

 

       Cassandra frowned as Methos rode into the village, with a young man at his side. She had never seen him before, and she could never forget a face, especially a face as pretty as his. Those gorgeous doe eyes were enough to make BOTH men and women's loins weep in longing for him. But the young man had eyes only for Methos. Once they got down from the wagon, he would not leave the ancient's side.

       Her curiosity piqued, the seeress followed the two men at a discreet distance as they went around the village, waiting for an opportunity to catch him alone. She found her chance at the horse trader's shop. Old Boris made no bones about the fact that he was impressed with the Immortal's skills in taming horses and he would seize any opportunity to avail of Methos' services whenever he came to town. However, once he got the ancient, he wouldn't share him with anyone. Sure enough, after a brief introduction, Old Boris curtly dismissed the young man, more rudely it seemed than usual.

       But the man simply smiled and waved the Immortal off. "Methos, I'll be all right. I'll find something to occupy my time."

       There was such reluctance on Methos' face, but he had no choice but to go with the horse trader. When the blacksmith was gone, his companion just stood there in the street, totally at a loss on what to do next and where to go.

       As she approached, Cassandra was surprised by the telltale aura surrounding him. _An Immortal! _she mused. _But I do not detect any presences inside him. Then how could his aura be so strong for a_ _youngling?_ The young man had obviously felt her as he turned to look in her direction.

       "I am unarmed," he said warily. "I seek no fight with you, my lady."

       _ Polite too! _The seeress answered, "You don't have anything to fear from me. I am Cassandra." She then raised a hand to him.

       The young man took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he leaned down and kissed her fingertips lightly. "My name's Duncan MacLeod."

       _ A MacLeod? But they've been... _Cassandra somehow managed a smile, though she was dying of curiosity. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Duncan. I haven't seen you here in the village before. You must have just come down from the Highlands. How are the state of affairs among the clans?"

       "Forgive me, my lady, but I'm afraid I cannot answer your questions about these clans and Highlands. From what I know, I've been living in the farm in the forest just outside your village since I got married."

       "And who's the lucky lass who has won your heart?"

       Duncan blushed in shyness. "No, not a lass. I'm handfasted to Methos the blacksmith."

       Cassandra found herself stunned by that remark. _Alexa passed away only four months ago. Methos_ _ couldn't have found someone else to love so soon. He was devastated when she died._

       "You said 'from what I know'," the seeress cocked an eyebrow up. "Why? Do you not know what your life has been with Methos?"

       "I don't even remember being handfasted to him," replied the Scot, shaking his head. "Methos said we were having a picnic by the pond when a storm suddenly hit. We were struck by lightning. I think I was hit a lot worse because I lost my memory."

       _ Memory loss! _Cassandra mused. _How convenient! _Looking at him meaningfully, she asked, "Duncan, would you like me to help you regain your memory? I'm a seeress. I might be able to help you."

       The Highlander brightened at these words. "You could? Oh please, Cassandra! I would give anything just to get my memory back." Duncan became serious. "So many strange things have been happening lately. I think it has something to do with my past. It frightens me."

       Cassandra gave him a reassuring smile. "We'll find out, won't we? Come with me, Duncan. It's going to take several hours before Boris decides to let Methos go. We could talk in my house rather than have you waiting out here for him in the middle of the street."

       "Are you sure Methos won't mind?"

       "We'll be back before he knows you've gone."

       At these words, Duncan followed the seeress to her home in the outskirts of the village. Inside, she bade the Scot to sit down at the small table while she closed the curtains. Lighting a candle, Cassandra took the seat before him.

       "Give me your hands, Duncan," she commanded.

       As the Highlander raised his hands, the seeress at last noticed the band of gold and ice around his wrist, her eyes widening in shock.

       Without touching it, Cassandra queried, "Where did you get this?"

       "It's my handfasting bracelet," he replied. "Methos' band has tiny flames." Noting the strange expression on the seeress' face, Duncan asked, "Why? Is something wrong?"

       At first, she couldn't speak. _It's not possible! It couldn't be! _Cassandra shook her head. "No, nothing's wrong! Let me hold your hands!"

       As Duncan laid his hands on hers, Cassandra braced herself. _If that bracelet is what I think it is, I'm in for_ _the fight of my life!_

 

       A few minutes later, Cassandra tore her hands out of the Highlander's grasp. In her terror, she practically flew out of her seat.

       "Cassandra, what is it?" Duncan asked in concern and fear. The seeress had been mumbling in an ancient tongue, shaking her head furiously. She had screamed when she roused from her trance. "What did you see?"

       The seeress was shaken by the torrent of images inside the Scot's mind - images of killing, torture, rape. She had seen similar visions before in the mind of another. But there was one memory in particular that they both shared. It had taken every ounce of her strength to draw it out. What made it especially difficult was the way the band on Duncan's wrist fought her efforts, as if it had a life of its own. The bracelet was determined to keep the memory locked away in the darkest recesses of the Highlander's mind.

       Unconsciously, Cassandra found herself reciting the prophecy the band had hammered into her head. "An Evil One will come, to vanquish all before him. Only a Highland child born on the winter solstice, who has seen both darkness and light, can stop him."

       The seeress leaned wearily against the cupboard, clutching her aching head.

       "Is that a prophecy, Cassandra?" Duncan's voice somehow reached her hearing. "What does it mean? Please, I beg you! Tell me what you saw!"

       For a moment, Cassandra hesitated, seeing the bracelet glow a deep blue. It was a clear warning. But she knew she could not keep her silence. Instead, the seeress chose an indirect route.

       "No, not yet," she replied. "First, let me tell you something about Methos."

 

       Methos was cursing under his breath as he stormed outside the horse trader's shop. "That's the last time I'm going to allow myself to be ambushed by that old man!" _God, where's Duncan? Old Boris had been_ _very rude to him. I hope he wasn't offended. I wonder where he went._

       Thinking the Scot had wandered off and will probably meet him back at the wagon, the ancient decided to go to Cassandra's house and ask for her advice about his lover. Reaching her home, Methos never expected to sense two Immortals inside, and that one of them was Duncan. As he opened the door, it was obvious to him that he had interrupted an important conversation. It didn't help any that Cassandra had a guilty expression on her face.

       "Oh hello, Methos!" Duncan said with forced cheer. "Are you through talking to Boris? I'm sorry. I lost all track of the time. I met your friend, Cassandra. She was kind enough to keep me company while you were indisposed."

       "And I thank you for your kindness to my handfasted," Methos glared menacingly at the seeress. "Come, Duncan. We must be getting home now."

       As the Highlander stood up, he bowed to her graciously. "Thank you, Cassandra. Our brief chat was most enlightening."

       The seeress swallowed hard before answering, "You're welcome, Duncan." She then got to her feet and showed the two men out. Cassandra saw the ancient take the Scot's hand, their handfasting bracelets glittering in the sunlight. She couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding inside her heart.

       From what she had gleaned from the Scot, Cassandra realized that Death's advance came to an abrupt halt the day Duncan was handfasted to Methos.

       _ Methos, the Immortal who was formerly known as Death, is handfasted to the man who has inherited his_ _mantle,_ Cassandra reflected. She closed her eyes in despair. _Dear God! What have I just done!_

 

       On the way back to the farm, Duncan was very quiet, almost too quiet, it seemed to Methos.

       "What did you two talk about?" he queried.

       "Nothing really." Duncan shrugged, trying to avoid the topic. "Just small talk."

       "It's all right," Methos declared, rather hurt. "I won't pry."

       "Methos, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. It's really just...nothing." The Scot couldn't think of anything else better to say.

       "And I said it's fine. Don't worry about it. We all have our little secrets."

       "We do?"

       Those two innocent words aroused Methos' suspicions even more. "Those are just little things that aren't really important. We just want to keep some private things to ourselves."

       "Are you keeping secrets from me, Methos?"

       "What about you, MacLeod?" the ancient snapped angrily at him. "Are YOU keeping secrets from me? Your memory loss could just be an excuse, so you won't..."

       Glancing at the young man at his side, Methos saw that the Highlander had lowered his gaze.

       "I'm sorry," Duncan whispered. "I should learn to stop asking questions and just keep my mouth shut."

       Methos reined Hesperus to a halt. Putting his arm comfortingly around the Scot's shoulders, he pulled Duncan close to him. "I'm the one who should apologize. Damn, I'm such an ass sometimes."

       "No, you're not!" argued Duncan, embracing his lover tightly. "You're the most wonderful man I have ever met." Inwardly, he added, _That's why I couldn't believe what Cassandra told me about you. You couldn't__ be the man she said you were._

       But Methos felt a twinge of guilt in his heart at that remark. _How I wish that were entirely true. _Rather than continue with this line of conversation, the ancient pinched Duncan's chin and made the young man look up.

       Pressing his lips to that full mouth, Methos invited, "Let's go for a swim. The pond's not far from here."

       Duncan smiled eagerly. "Sure! Why not?"

 

       A few minutes later, the two men were swimming and frolicking in the clear waters of the pond, splashing playfully at each other. Soon, however, it led to something more serious.

       "Methos?" Duncan asked, seeing the warm smile on the elder's face.

       "You're so beautiful, MacLeod," Methos said in awe. "I'm afraid to touch you."

       "Why don't you? Nothing's going to happen this time, Methos." Though he said these words, the Highlander still had his doubts.

       "How could you be so sure?"

       "I just feel it." Duncan smiled. "Please, Methos? You may touch me if you like."

       As Methos took the Scot in his arms, they did more than just touch. When their lips met in a kiss, their bracelets began to glow, surrounding the pond in a bright aura.

 

       The Master was watching the two men make love.

       "Time to make things interesting once more," he declared earnestly.

       However, when he cast a spell, it would not penetrate the shield surrounding the two Immortals. No matter how hard he tried, the spell would not break through. The Master roared in anger and frustration.

       Gazing down into the scrying pool, he saw that Methos had breached Duncan, and was riding the Highlander to the peak of bliss.

       "Enjoy Duncan's flesh, Old One," he muttered. "Have your fill. If you think the bond between you would last forever, you're wrong. The fool deity who handfasted you doesn't know that my hold over the Scot is stronger. Cassandra has already sown the seeds of doubt in MacLeod's mind. All I have to do is sit back and wait. Soon enough, it will be Duncan himself who will break the ties that bind you, and his soul will be mine for all eternity."

 

       Duncan was bobbing up and down in the water, moaning in ecstasy every time Methos pounded into him. When he came, a scream escaped his lips, sending the birds flying from the trees. He smiled as his lover climaxed inside him, filling him with his seed.

       "Are you all right, MacLeod?" Methos asked, noting the blissful look on the Highlander's face. "Let me pull out of you."

       However, Duncan wrapped his legs around the older man's hips. Kissing Methos, he said, "Don't you dare! I want you inside me a little while longer."

       Suddenly, the ancient understood why his lover was so happy.

       "Duncan?" he queried, just wanting to make sure. "No bad memories?"

       The Highlander shook his head. "No bad memories!" Happily, he cried, "ABSOLUTELY NONE!"  


       



	7. Chapter 7

 

** CHAPTER SEVEN **

 

       "I can't believe we just did that!" Methos laughed as he glanced back at the Scot.

       "May I remind you it was your idea, not mine." Duncan peered up from his position between Methos' legs. "It's not as if you didn't like it, Old Man."

       "Oh, but I did! I liked it so much, I want to do it again." The ancient took the Highlander's cock and licked the shaft, poking his finger inside Duncan's ass at the same time. "Would you look that? There's still what I poured in last night."

       The Scot cried out in pleasure as Methos' fingertip brushed against his prostate. "I could only take so much, Methos." Waving his hand, he declared, "Please! Get off...now! And watch your knees! You might hit my face."

       "But I haven't had enough yet," the Old Man complained.

       Duncan blew a loose strand of hair from his face. "There's always tonight. We could do it again later."

       The ancient exclaimed like a petulant child, "I don't think I could wait that long!"

       "METHOS, BEHAVE!"

       Grumbling, the ancient eased himself up to a sitting position, taking care that his legs do not hit the Highlander's face. Seeing Methos' manhood waving before his eyes, Duncan raised his head and mischievously kissed the tip. The blacksmith jerked in surprise at that light touch.

       "I thought you've had enough?" Methos queried, a pout on his lips.

       Duncan gave Methos an innocent smile. "Just figured I'd give you something to look forward to."

       The ancient bent down and kissed the younger man. "We could do it again at the smithy. I could set up a cot there."

       Playfully, the Scot pushed his earnest lover away. "You're going to the village, remember? You promised Boris you'd help him with his horses."

       "Then you could come with me and we could do it at the inn."

       "Too expensive. No, I'm staying here." The Highlander sat up from the bed and grimaced. "Would you just look at this mess?"

       Clothes were strewn all over the place. Tables and chairs were pushed to the walls. All sorts of foodstuffs were scattered on the floor.

       Duncan scratched his head in dismay. "It's going to take me forever to clean this up!"

       Methos raised his eyebrows up and down, grinning. "I could stay and help you out," he suggested anxiously.

 

       In mere seconds, the door to the house flew open and Methos stumbled out, clad only in his underpants. Before he could get back inside, the door slammed shut.

       "MacLeod," he called, knocking on the door, "my clothes! It's rather cold out here."

       The door opened once more and his shirt, breeches and boots were thrust into his arms.

       Seeing the door close again, Methos complained, "Don't I even get a goodbye kiss?"

       There was silence inside. Then, the door opened a crack and Duncan swiftly blew him a kiss. Methos tried to grab the Scot's hand, but Duncan was so quick that his fingers almost got caught in the door jamb.

       "All right!" he shouted in disappointment. As he struggled into his clothes, he continued, "If that's the way you want it! Mark my words! In this whole day that I'll be gone, you'll miss me. You'd wish I stayed."

       As Methos got into Hesperus' saddle, the window was raised and Duncan sat on the ledge.

       "Methos!" he called out.

       The ancient glanced at his lover.

       Duncan smiled. "Hurry back, will you? You still haven't left yet and I miss you already."

       The Old Man beamed at that remark. Urging his horse onward, he turned to wave at the Highlander, who was also waving goodbye.

       At the sight of that handsome face, suddenly, Methos felt dread inside his heart. Things had been going very well for both of them. No visions of the past, nor that of men with painted faces haunting them. There was only love and happiness between them. But why was he so afraid now?

       Looking back at Duncan, Methos found himself imprinting the memory of his lover waving to him from the window inside his mind. Little did the ancient know that that would be the last happy memory he would have of the Highlander before the day was through.

 

       "This is the last time I'm letting Methos convince me to participate in one of his odd amorous pursuits," Duncan grumbled to himself as he swept the floor.

       The Scot had just finished washing all their clothes and was now occupied with cleaning the house.

       When the floor was clean, he was pulling the table back into place when he felt a board give way slightly under his foot. Curiously, Duncan squatted down and pressed the wood. Tapping the floor, he discovered that there was a hollow beneath five boards. Carefully, the Highlander traced the cracks until he found a small latch. He pulled it up, revealing a hole in the ground and a large chest. Duncan lifted the chest out of the hole. There was a huge lock. Taking the poker, he tore off the lock and opened the lid. Seeing the contents, Duncan just found himself dropping to his knees.

       With trembling hands, the Scot pulled out a bloodstained shirt and kilt and jet black leather boots. A slim, curved blade lay sheathed in its scabbard. Picking it up, his fingers shook as he fearfully touched the fierce dragon carved into its ivory hilt. Unknown to the Scot, he was breathing rapidly, his heart pounding in his chest. Tears were welling up in his eyes.

       The next garment he pulled out was another white shirt. But it had yellowed with age and the dampness. Dried moss clung to the fabric of the shirt, as well as on the breeches that lay beneath it. However, it was the thing lying at the bottom of the chest that stunned him to the core of his being.

       Tears began to fall down his cheeks as he picked up the slim, straight sword. Unsheathing the Ivanhoe, Duncan held it up before him.

       At once, the memories came flooding back as the blade slashed through the dam inside his mind. Duncan gaped in horror, seeing that same blade destroy the happiness of his childhood, cutting down his favorite toy just as it had cut down his beloved parents.

       Then, the Highlander found himself staring at the wielder of the sword of blood. The man with the painted face. Death was looking at him through green gold eyes, eyes filled with desire for him, though he was so tiny and unspotted by the violent world he had been born in.

       "You don't have to do this." To the Scot, his voice sounded so brave and so strong, even if it were the high- pitched voice of a child. "You've won."

       For his courage, Death's gift to him was pain, and the agony of innocence lost at such a tender age. Through tear-filled eyes, Duncan watched as the paint from Death's face was steadily washed away by the sweat from his brow. The agony of tearing flesh could not compare to the anguish in his soul as Death was finally unmasked.

       Duncan shook his head, wanting to deny the truth that was revealed to him. But as the sword's sharp edges cut into his hands, so did the memory of a silken blade tearing his tender flesh cut into his heart.

       "No," the Scot muttered over and over again, clutching the Ivanhoe close to his heart. Unable to hold back his emotions, Duncan screamed in anguish.

       In his domain, the Master heard the Highlander's cry, and he knew that Death has been reborn.

 

       "Methos! Methos wait!" Cassandra was desperately running after the ancient.

       Methos kept up his fast pace, choosing to ignore the seeress.

       "I must talk to you!" she cried.

       "There's nothing for us to talk about, Cassandra," he answered curtly.

       Breathless, the seeress gave up running. "Yes, there is. Duncan MacLeod."

       The Old Man stopped, hearing his lover's name. Angry, he stormed towards Cassandra. "You stay the hell away from Duncan!"

       But the seeress was persistent. "I know who he is, Methos. He is Death. How in heaven's name did you become handfasted to him?"

       "I thought this was what you wanted, Cassandra. An end to the killings! I asked God to bind me to the man who has assumed my mantle, so that I may change him, steer him away from the path of blood and chaos I had walked for centuries."

       "You fool!" Cassandra shouted in frustration. "You don't know what you've done!"

       "If I'm a fool, then so be it! I love Duncan!"

       "And it is your love that will destroy him!"

       At these words, Methos felt a chill run up his spine. "What do you mean?"

       "You are joined by a Divine Handfasting," she explained. "If one of you should break it, it is a mortal sin, because you choose to go against what God willed. The soul of the bondbreaker will burn in Hell!"

       "Why should we choose to break the ties between us? We love each other. Only death will tear us apart."

       The seeress clucked her tongue. "You should mention death. How that irony frightens me!" She continued, "You are bound together, that is true. However, it is a very fragile link. The ties between you have its roots in the past - ties of pain, rage and blood."

       Methos shook his head. "Cassandra, you're not making any sense."

       "When you severed your ties with the Master thirty years ago, another bond was formed. Though the Master may have lost you, he has found another to take your place, someone you yourself helped create. For years, he was in the Master's thrall, his anger fuelled by the desire to find and destroy the man who had transformed him into a monster, like you had been. It was only a matter of time before your paths crossed again. Sure enough, you meet again and, through Divine Intervention, you are handfasted, the bond between you the only thing keeping those memories in the dark where they should belong..." There was great guilt on the seeress' face. "...until I interfered."

       Methos' jaw dropped his shock. He shook his head in disbelief, though he could feel his world collapse all around him.

       "I'm sorry, Methos," Cassandra started to weep. "I only wanted to help Duncan get his memory back. When I entered his mind...I had to tell him..."

       "Tell him what?" The ancient grabbed the seeress' shoulders, shaking her roughly. "What did you tell Duncan?"

       "I told him who you were! That you were Death!"

       Methos couldn't believe what he just heard. Panicking, he began to walk off. "My God! I have to get home!"

       Cassandra grabbed his arm. "Maybe...maybe nothing happened," she tried to calm the Old Man. "It's been three weeks since we spoke. Duncan didn't believe me back then. He was very angry. He said I was lying."

       "But you don't know that for certain, do you? Good lord, Cassandra! What have you done?"

       "Methos, I'm so sorry!" With much reluctance, the seeress murmured, "There's something else you should know."

       "I don't want to hear another word from you!" Methos snapped at her.

       "Please hear me out!" Cassandra begged him. "What I have to tell you... It's better that you know now. So that, when that time comes, you would know what to say to him. So that Duncan would not break the ties between you."

       "Enough of the small talk, witch!" The ancient said it with such venom in his voice. "Just spit it out!"

       Cassandra breathed in deeply. She then looked him straight in the eye. "When you were still Death, you never knew the people you had killed and tormented. You blindly obeyed the Master's orders. Thirty years ago, you stormed the keep of a Scottish chieftain, killing everyone in cold blood, including the laird and his wife. There was one survivor - a child, a little boy who had the courage to stand before Death and challenge him." Shaking her head, the seeress' voice trembled as she spoke. "It would've been better if you had killed him, but you didn't. He was the reward your Master gave you, a prize for murdering Ian MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

       Methos stared at the seeress in stunned silence. Then, he gasped, "No! It can't be! It can't be true!"

       "I'm afraid so," Cassandra said sorrowfully. "Duncan MacLeod was Ian's son. Duncan was the child you had raped thirty years ago."

 

       The Immortal rode Hesperus as if the hounds of Hell were after him, determined to get back to his farm.

       When he arrived, Methos was greeted by an unearthly silence. No birds sang in the trees. There wasn't even a slight breeze. Getting down from the stallion, he gazed nervously at the house. It seemed very dark inside. No movement could be detected. Slowly, Methos walked towards the house, going up the few steps of the porch. For a moment, he paused at the door, his hand on the latch. Taking a deep breath, Methos entered.

       "Duncan, I'm home!" he greeted, trying to sound cheerful, though he was uncomfortable by the darkness that surrounded him.

       "It's good your home," a voice replied from the shadows.

       Methos felt his heart jump. He was stunned by how cold Duncan's voice sounded. "MacLeod, what's going on? Why is it so dark in here?"

       "I prefer it this way," said the Scot in that same flat tone. "So we could talk."

       It was then that the Highlander stepped out from the shadows. Methos was shocked to see Duncan dressed in his garb as Death. His curved blade was sheathed in a scabbard at his left hip. In his hands, he held Methos' sword.

       "Cassandra told me a lot of things about you," he began slowly, measuring the smith's reaction. "I didn't want to believe it." Though he tried to control his emotions from showing on his face, Duncan's doe eyes revealed the turmoil in his soul. Raising the Ivanhoe, he asked, "Is what she said true? Did you kill all those people?"

       "Duncan, I can explain..."

       "JUST TELL ME THE TRUTH, DAMN YOU!"

       "YES!" Methos declared. "Is that what you want to hear?" The ancient breathed in deeply. He went towards the Scot until they were face to face. "I killed, but I didn't just kill fifty. I didn't kill a hundred. I killed a thousand. I KILLED TEN THOUSAND! And I was good at it! And it wasn't for vengeance. It wasn't for greed. It was because I LIKED IT! Did you know who I was? I was Death! Death on a horse! When mothers warn their children that a monster would get them, that monster was me. I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night."

       "I know. You don't have to tell me," said Duncan, a tear falling from his eye. "I know first hand the kind of monster that you really are. What I want to know is why?"

       "There is no answer, MacLeod. Let it be."

       "No! I cannot 'let it be.' Why did you  kill my parents? Why did you destroy my clan?"

       "I was simply following orders...just like you were already doing, before some higher power saw it fit to handfast us."

       The Highlander stiffened at that remark.

       Methos went on, "MacLeod, we're really not that different."

       "The reason why we're 'not that different' is because you turned me into a monster like you," the Scot countered bitterly. Weeping openly, he asked, "Were you ordered to do...that...to me?"

       Methos found that he couldn't answer that question. He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come out.

       "Please, Methos!" Duncan pleaded with him. "Maybe...maybe it would be easier for me to accept that you did it because you were only following orders. Or maybe that you felt...even just a little...remorse while you were..."

       "Duncan," the ancient interrupted, tears flowing down his cheeks. "I...I wasn't ordered to... You were my reward. My prize! Even as a child, you were already so brave, so beautiful. I had to have you!"

       The Highlander was stunned at this revelation. "YOU BASTARD!" In fury, he struck the blacksmith in the face, that Methos fell to the floor, bleeding from a corner of his mouth.

       As he sat up, Methos said, "I've made a thousand mistakes in my life, but of them all, I regretted what I did to you the most. After that night, I never took up my sword again. I never wore the mantle of Death. For years, I wanted to find you, to make up for the pain I caused you. But I just didn't have the courage to face the consequences of my sins. Then you came along - the new Death, the man who is my heir. I never knew who you truly were. Still, I had to stop you from making the same mistakes I did. I had to stop you for raping and killing innocent people. When I made my prayer, I didn't even think. It was my heart that told me what to do. I never thought my prayer would be answered, but God deemed it right that we be handfasted, so we could both start a new life together." He looked beggingly at the Scot. "Duncan, please forgive me! You've seen for yourself the man that I am now. I would never do anything to hurt you. Please tell me I have already made up for the heinous crime I committed against you. I love you, Duncan! I don't want to lose you!"

       Duncan, however, shook his head, rage evident on his face. "You make me sick, Methos! How could I have loved the man who raped me when I was still a child? Just the thought of the many times you had fucked my body revolts me. You want me to forgive you? You haven't even begun to pay for that night you ravished me!"

       The Highlander raised his hand before him, showing the handfasting band on his wrist to the ancient. "This...thing...is a hated symbol of the travesty you made of both our lives. Your lies cannot bind me to you."

       Methos' eyes widened, seeing Duncan take the Ivanhoe, squeezing the blade under the bracelet. "MacLeod, no! Don't break the band! A Divine Handfasting joins us! If you break it, it's anathema! Your soul will be condemned to Hell!"

       "But I'm already in Hell, Methos," Duncan replied, twisting the blade that the sharp edge scraped his skin under the band. "The day I was handfasted to my ravisher was the day my soul has been cursed."

       To Methos' horror, the Highlander cut through the band with the sword, blood spurting from the gash that was formed on his wrist. As he did this, lightning cracked in the heavens and rain began to pour. Duncan staggered back a step, clutching his chest, feeling the agony of the broken link between them. All Methos felt was a sudden emptiness in his heart, overwhelming desolation that ate away at his soul. With trembling hands, the ancient picked up the broken handfasting bracelet. Even the intricate snow flakes design had lost its luster. It was dull, lifeless.

       "What have you done?" Methos muttered in disbelief.

       Though the pain in his heart was tearing him apart, Duncan straightened up. "I did the right thing," he said firmly. He then turned and strode towards the door.

       "Duncan, wait!" the ancient called. The Scot paused, not looking at the older man. "Don't go back to him! Please! The Master...he'll make you do terrible things! I'll have to stop you! I will kill you if I have to!"

       "That is the way of our kind, Methos," said Duncan. "There can be only one. We can't have two Deaths roaming this earth. When that time comes, we shall see who'll survive."

       Saying this, the Highlander walked out the door and through the pouring rain. Methos watched as Venganza met Duncan. Climbing in her saddle, he rode off into the stormy night. The ancient could only grieve and weep for the love he had lost, pressing the broken band over his heart.

 

       Duncan rode aimlessly through the storm for several hours. Then, he noticed his surroundings begin to change. Trees and brush changed to stone walls. Even the rain stopped entirely. Despite the transformation, he pressed Venganza on, galloping through the path between the trees, which turned into a long, dark tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a large chamber, dotted with numerous smaller passageways. The entire chamber was lit by an unearthly glow. Waiting in the center was the cowled form of the Master.

       "Welcome home, Duncan!" the Master greeted the Scot, who hastily got down from his horse. "You've been gone so long."

       Getting down on one knee, the Highlander bowed to him. "Forgive me. I've been...indisposed. I lost my memory. I would have returned sooner."

       "There is nothing to forgive. I've seen what has happened to you. I was powerless to stop it."

       "So you know that I was handfasted to Methos. Those bizarre... occurrences ...it was you, wasn't it?"

       "I'm so sorry I frightened you," the Master replied. "I was hoping I could reach you."

       "If I had known," Duncan began bitterly, "maybe I would have been...freed...sooner."

       "It doesn't matter. At least you're free now. You did the right thing by breaking the bond between you. As Death, Methos was the most vicious warrior I have ever known. In the end, he was unstoppable. It's been twice now that I couldn't save you from his vile clutches."

       "What is done is done," said the Scot wearily. "The only thing left for me to do is to kill him."

       "And that time will come soon enough," the Master assured him. "But first, you still need to fulfill your mission before you were indisposed."

       The Highlander nodded his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Yes, I know."

       "Is something troubling you?" The Master looked at him curiously.

       "Not really. But...is all this killing necessary? It's Methos with whom I have a score to settle with. Why drag innocent people into the fray?"

       "Because it is those innocent people who would protect him. The same people who only know him as 'Methos the blacksmith', not 'Methos the defiler of children.'" The Master hissed in his ear, "If you let them get in your way now, you will lose your chance to take Methos' head. Harden your heart, Highlander. What is a few deaths compared to the loss of your innocence?"

       Though his conscience troubled him, Duncan nodded his head.

       "You're soaking wet," the Master muttered. With long, sinuous fingers, he swiftly removed the laces of the Scot's shirt, letting the wet garment fall from the young man's shoulders and halfway down his arms. "Why don't you bathe in the hot spring for a few minutes. Let the chill out." Duncan tried to control his shaking as the Master caressed his shoulders, those clammy hands descending to his chest. "Afterwards, maybe you and I could get...acquainted once more."

       Feeling the Master's cold touch on his nipples, Duncan cried "NO!" as he took two steps back. With trembling hands, he pulled his shirt up, just enough to cover his bare chest. Fearful that he had angered the Master, he stammered, "Forgive me. I didn't mean to... I was... The memory of the things Methos did to me..."

       "I understand," the Master reassured him. "It is difficult to get over a rape as vile as what Methos did to you. Go on, Duncan. Bathe and then rest. By the morrow, you will feel like your usual self again. Then, we could plot our next move."

       The Highlander bowed as the Master exited through one of the passageways. When he was gone, Duncan entered another tunnel, which led to the hot spring. Slowly, he peeled off his wet clothes and soaked in the warm, soothing waters. Duncan wanted so much to feel at ease in his surroundings. After all, he was home. However, he could feel many eyes watching him. Gazing up at the walls of the cave, the Scot noticed how the walls seemed to blur one moment and then clear the next. For a moment, he thought he saw flickering flames, but he shrugged it off, believing it was just his eyes playing tricks on him.

       As he soaked in the spring, the Highlander found himself thinking about a small farm in a forest, and the kind-hearted and loving blacksmith who lived there. Duncan remembered the happy times they had. The memory of the intimate moments they shared caused such heart-wrenching longing to rise in his body and heart. Seeing himself responding to the mere thought of Methos making love to him, the Scot stood up in shock. With a cry, Duncan ran out of the pool, picking up the clean robe that had suddenly appeared in place of his wet clothing, and went into another tunnel. At the end of it was his own bedchamber.

       Leaping on the four poster bed, Duncan curled up in a ball, wrapping the robe over his body.

       "Methos!" Duncan sobbed the ancient's name. "Why did I have to fall in love with you?"

 

       Two weeks had gone by since the Highlander left him. Methos was listlessly going about his work in the forge. His head was bent over Duncan's broken handfasting bracelet. However, when he picked it up with the tongs, the band just fell apart on the floor, same as the many times he had attempted to fix it. Methos bowed his head, staring at the broken band. It was just like his aching heart. Memories of Duncan brought such great pain that left him feeling bereft.

       "Methos! Methos!" a familiar voice called from outside. This was followed by frantic knocking on his door. Despite the urgency in his visitor's tone, Methos took his time in answering.

       Opening the door, the ancient saw Cassandra, who was panting for breath. "What the hell do you want?" he asked dryly.

       The seeress knew that the Scot had left Methos. But she didn't expect to see him looking so lost, so lifeless. Methos looked a lot worse now than when Alexa passed away.

       "Methos, you must come with me!" she urged him. "Something's happened in the village!"

       "Cassandra," the Old Man began wearily, "I couldn't care less about what's happening in the village! Why don't you just go away and leave me alone?"

       "METHOS, PLEASE!"

       Grimacing, Methos removed his smock and donned his cloak. "Whatever it is, it better be worth my time."

       Cassandra didn't utter a retort, seeing how much in pain the blacksmith was.

       In a few minutes, they arrived at the village. A small crowd had gathered in the middle of the street, which led to a road heading up into the Highlands. With the seeress at the fore, a small path was cleared for them. Methos found his jaw dropping at the horrible sight before him.

       A pike was driven into the ground right in the middle of the street. Firmly affixed atop was the severed head of Boris, the horse trader.

       "The killings have begun again," Cassandra muttered under her breath.

       Suddenly, a horse neighed from the distance. That terrible, echoing sound hushed everyone to silence. Methos gritted his teeth. He knew a challenge when he heard one.

       "No," he told the seeress. "It's time to put a stop to this once and for all."  


  



	8. Chapter 8

 

** CHAPTER EIGHT **

 

       At cockcrow, Methos rode up the small hill that stood between the Highlands and the village. He knew that his friends would be waiting at the bottom of the hill for him, or for the man who would spell their doom. Rather than think about the dreaded confrontation ahead of him, the ancient recalled the conversation he had earlier with Cassandra.

 

       _ "Methos, don't do this!" Cassandra begged him. "There must be another way!"_

       He raised his sword, gazing at the honed edges. "You know there is no other way," Methos answered calmly.

       "This is all my fault!" the seeress wept, guilt-ridden. "I should never have interfered!"

       "What is done is done. It's too late for regrets."

       "Methos?" Cassandra asked hesitantly. "I know you love him. Could you find it in your heart to kill him?"

       The ancient sheathed his blade. "I don't know. But one way or another, the killings will stop." He then looked at Cassandra in resoluteness. "That I promise you."

 

       Methos snapped out of his reverie as he neared the top of the hill. The Highlander was already there, waiting for him, sitting astride Venganza.

       "I knew you'd come," Duncan said, his face somber. "We must settle this matter between us once and for all."

       "Not even a hello, MacLeod?" Methos suddenly asked him.

       The Scot was taken aback by that query. "Is there any reason why I should?" Duncan snapped in turn.

       The Old Man didn't hide the deep longing in his eyes. "I missed you, Duncan. I missed you so much."

       "Duncan MacLeod no longer exists. You know who I am."

       "Yes. You're Death, and you've come for me." Saying this, Methos got down from his horse. As he unsheathed his Ivanhoe, he threw the scabbard aside.

       "Finally, we come to an understanding," the Highlander declared as he also jumped down from Venganza. Going towards Methos, he pulled his sword from its sheath, holding the hilt with both hands in readiness for battle.

       The ancient gazed at the blade that was pointed menacingly at him. "I think it is you who doesn't understand. I didn't come here to fight."

       At these words, Methos thrust the point of his sword into the ground. As the stunned Scot looked on, the older man got down on his knees, his head bowed low, neck bared.

       "What are you doing?" the Highlander demanded.

       "I am offering you my head," Methos answered simply, "in exchange for the lives of the people in the village."

       "Damn you, Old Man! I won't let you do this to me!" Duncan tapped the ancient's sword with his own blade. "Pick up your sword and fight me! Fight like a man!"

       As Methos looked up, there were tears in his eyes. "Why should I fight you? A true man fights to save his life, his honor. But this miserable life isn't worth fighting for! I know I deserve to die, and by your hands. I raped you, Duncan. There's no forgiveness for what I did to you. Maybe, with my death, you will lose the anger and hatred raging inside your heart, that you will stop killing innocent people. I am NOT innocent. Let the killings end with me!"

       Duncan's jaw hardened. "If that is your wish," he declared, "then so be it."

       As the Highlander raised his sword, Methos reached into his pocket and pulled something out. Holding it tightly, he clutched it close to his heart. Duncan saw what it was before the ancient lowered his head once more - the broken handfasting band.

       The Scot hesitated, the desire for vengeance warring with the true calling of his heart. Gazing down at the submissive figure at his feet, Duncan couldn't bring his sword down to deliver the deathblow. He just found himself giving in to his heart, sinking to his knees before the ancient, his blade falling at his side.

       Methos looked questioningly at the young man. "Duncan?" he said gently, a smile on his face. "This is not the time to falter. I'm ready to die. I'm not afraid."

       Duncan, however, shook his head as tears trickled down his cheeks. "I can't do it! I can't kill you!"

       "Yes, you can. Just harden your heart. Remember what I did to you."

       "Methos, I can't! My heart won't allow it!" There was such sorrow in the Scot's lovely doe eyes. "My heart has forgiven you, long before I could accept it. I love you, Methos!"

       Hearing these words, the ancient felt his own heart leap for joy. Taking the younger man into his arms, he whispered, "Thank you, Duncan! Oh, thank you so much!"

       Suddenly, a strong wind swirled around them.

       "FOOLS!" a booming voice declared.

       Turning, the two men saw that the mare's eyes were ablaze with hellfire. Then, it began to change, transforming into the hooded form of the Master. Methos held on protectively to Duncan.

       "Look at you!" the Master sneered as he walked around the two Immortals. "Declaring love to one another! How pathetic!"

       "What do you know of love?" Methos countered. "All you have ever done is cause death and destruction! You can't even do the dirty work yourself! You corrupt the lives of innocents and let them be your warriors!"

       "True! True! But there was one instance wherein I just couldn't resist interfering."

       Duncan frowned. "What do you mean?"

       Red eyes glowed in the darkness of the Master's hood. "You were so beautiful, Duncan MacLeod! How Methos could pass up such a delectable morsel like you, I never did understand!"

       "What the hell are you talking about?" the ancient demanded.

       The Master then waved his hand. "It seems to me you've completely forgotten what had happened that night. My spell must have worked too well. Let me show you."

       At once, the two Immortals were plunged in darkness. Then, there was a dim light, and they found themselves inside the chamber of the laird of the Clan MacLeod.

       Methos watched, horrified, seeing his younger self straddle the tiny child Duncan had been thirty years ago, tearing off the boy's garments, like a ravenous beast.

       "You don't have to do this," the child said firmly. "You have won."

       A small cry escaped the Scot's lips as the ancient shouted, "Shut your mouth!" and slapped the boy in the face, knocking him unconscious.

       When Methos loosened his trousers, Duncan sobbed, "Make him stop doing this! I don't want to see anymore!"

       But the Old Man couldn't speak, mesmerized by the revolting sight unfolding before them. Methos observed how his former self gripped the child's wrists, positioning his hard organ between his legs.

       Then, to both their surprise, Methos paused. He began shaking his head furiously.

       "NOOO!" he shouted as he clambered off the bed and ran to the far wall.

       Someone clucked his tongue. They all turned to look at the cowled form standing at the doorway.

       "Methos, Methos!" the Master said chidingly. "I never knew you could be such a fool. Don't you like your prize?"

       "You want me to ravish a child? What do you think I am?"

       "You are the warrior I created," he answered. "You are Death! You are above the ethics and morality that bind all men. Here is your reward! Claim him!"

       "NEVER!"

       "Very well," the Master declared in surrender. He glanced at the unconscious little boy on the bed. "Unlike you, however, I cannot pass up such a sweet, tender morsel as this."

       As the Master went towards the bed, they gaped in horror, seeing the evil being transform into Methos.

       "Oh my God!" Duncan gasped, watching as the Master lay over the boy he had been, freeing his erect cock.

       The Master's eyes blazed with unholy light as he glanced at the cowering warrior. "I'm not a selfish man, Methos. I will share with you this most tempting feast."

       Before Methos could turn his gaze away, his mind was linked with the evil being.

       When the Master thrust into the child, the Scot buried his face in his lover's shoulder. He didn't have to look to know what was happening. He had woken up at that first thrust, screaming in agony. Later, Duncan bit down on his lower lip, trying to stifle his cries of pain. He didn't want to give the man he thought was Death the satisfaction of hearing him scream. After all, he was the son of a great chieftain. Still, Duncan was just a child, and the agony of having a hard rod forcing its way into his tight channel that would not fit it was too much to bear.

       Duncan wept as, true enough, he heard the child call out to his dead mother. "Mother, please make him stop hurting me!"

       As for Methos, he watched in horror as his past self experienced the atrocity the Master was committing. Linked as they were, the ancient believed that it was he, and not the evil being, who was raping the Highland child. When the Master climaxed, so too did the hold on his mind weaken.

       Unable to take the sight any longer, the younger Methos fled from the room, screaming in anguish and guilt.

       The debauchery came to an end. Duncan and Methos witnessed how the Master returned to his original form and took the bleeding child away. The scene ended there and the two men were brought back to the grassy hill.

       Duncan gazed up at the Master. "It was you! It was you all along! You raped me! Then you raised  me yourself so I could take Methos' place as Death!"

       "That is true," the Master admitted. "But I never counted on your crossing paths again, much more that you would be handfasted. It doesn't matter now, however. I finally have what I always wanted."

       "What do you mean?" the ancient queried.

       "The soul of a Highland child born on the winter solstice."

       Duncan found himself reciting the prophecy Cassandra had told him. "An Evil One will come, to vanquish all before him. Only a Highland child born on the winter solstice, who has seen both darkness and light, can stop him."

       "I see you already know it." The Master explained, "It was said that this child would be the one to defeat me. It took me centuries, but I found him. I wanted to corrupt this child, so he wouldn't be a threat to me. More so, that he would belong to me completely. I took his body. I watched as the blood of the men and women he had slain steadily tainted his soul. It was a slow and tedious process. His heart, you see, really wasn't in to killing, so I had to control him, keep him in my thrall. Then you showed up after thirty years. I thought you would spoil my plans. Instead, things worked out to my advantage. Thinking you had raped him, my dear Highland child broke the divine ties that bind you, a grievous sin in the eyes of God. 'What God has brought together, let no man tear asunder.' You know what I mean."

       "NO!" Methos cried, embracing the Scot tightly. "He will never be yours! Besides, Duncan is Immortal now! Unless you take his head, you cannot own his soul!"

       Hearing this, the Master burst into laughter. "My dear Methos! Taking the head is not the only way to kill an Immortal!"

       Suddenly, the Master lunged forward and thrust his hand into the Highlander's back. Duncan screamed as his soul was wrenched out of his body. The ancient was horrified, feeling the Scot fall limp in his arms. Gazing up, he saw the ethereal form of his lover's spirit struggling in the Master's grasp.

       "Methos, help me!" Duncan cried as he reached out to the blacksmith.

       Before the Master could disappear with his captive soul, Methos leaped to his feet, the handfasting band on his wrist glowing bright. As he grabbed Duncan's hand, his soul flew out of his body. Then, Methos found himself falling and falling and falling...

 

       The ancient woke up in a large cave. Getting up, he saw the Master with the Highlander in his embrace, standing on a shelf of rock.

       "I admire your bravery, Methos," said the Master. "Now I have two souls instead of just one."

       "Where am I?" Methos asked, looking around him.

       Then, the walls of the cave began to crumble as the illusion was shattered. At once, the sounds of torment filled the air and the stifling heat assaulted him. Gazing all around him, he saw that he was in a totally different world. Pillars of flame towered above him. Below was a river of fire. He was horrified to see millions of souls in that blazing river.

       The rock the Master and his captive were standing on broke free and floated into the sky. The evil being laughed. "WELCOME TO HELL, METHOS!"

       Swiftly, Methos leaped from the ledge and grabbed the edge of the floating rock, climbing on top.

       "I've come to take Duncan back with me!" Methos said strongly. "He does not belong here!"

       "We shall see!"

       Suddenly, chains snaked out from the other rocks floating near them.

       "METHOS, LOOK OUT!" Duncan shouted in warning.

       The ancient agilely dodged the chains reaching out to grab him. But there were just too many of them. Soon, Methos found himself tightly bound that he couldn't move.

       "What the hell are you?" he yelled at the hooded being.

       In reply, the Master threw off his cowl, revealing a monstrous face with large red eyes, huge flaring nostrils and sharp teeth in its mouth. On his forehead was a glowing ruby. He had scales and leather for skin. There were sharp claws on his hands and feet. Slowly, he unfurled his huge wings.

       "I am Set. I am Ahriman," the Master introduced himself. "I am everything your people call demons and devils. I am anger. I am the dark. I bring chaos and fear, doubt and anarchy. I existed before time began, and I will exist when time has ended. For you, all that matters is that you cannot stop me!"

       At these words, Ahriman flung the Highlander down to the ground on his hands and knees, tearing Duncan's clothes to shreds. Like a ravenous beast, he mounted the young Immortal, his huge cock eager to plunder the flesh beneath him.

       "NO!" Methos roared in fury, struggling with his bonds. "LEAVE HIM ALONE! DO NOT TOUCH HIM!"

       Duncan was sobbing, terrified. He whimpered as Ahriman licked his face with his forked tongue.

       "You've had your chance, Old Man," the demon muttered, spreading the Scot's knees apart. "Now, it's my turn."

       A scream was wrenched from the Highlander's throat as Ahriman forced his cock inside him.

       Pounding furiously into the Immortal, Ahriman laughed at the ancient, who was gnashing his teeth at the cruelty being inflicted upon his lover. "No wonder you care for him, Methos! He's a wonderful fuck! So tender! So exquisitely tight!"

       _ God, help me! _Methos prayed earnestly as he strained at his shackles. _I must save Duncan! If only I_ had my sword...

       The wish had just crossed his mind when, suddenly, he felt something pressed into his right hand. Turning his head, Methos saw that he held the hilt of the Ivanhoe, but the steel blade has been replaced with a blade of pure light. With a flick of his wrist, he cut through the chains binding his right hand. His sword arm freed, Methos destroyed the rest of his shackles.

       "AHRIMAN!" he shouted. "LET HIM GO!"

       The demon stopped his thrusting and roughly withdrew from the battered Scot. With a hard slap on Duncan's rump, he muttered, "We'll continue this once I'm through with your lover."

       Facing the blacksmith, Ahriman declared, "So you want a fight. I'm only happy to oblige!" Raising his right hand, a beam of red light fell into his palm, forming into a spear. With a war cry, the demon charged at the ancient.

       Duncan slowly sat up, wincing from the pain of his violated backside. Coiling the tattered remnants of his kilt around his body, he watched the fierce duel taking place before him.

       Ahriman tried thrusting the spear's sharp point, but Methos either swiftly got out of its way or parried it with his sword of light. The demon swung his spear, hoping to trip the ancient. Methos, however, leaped high, that the spear missed his feet by inches. Following a quick riposte, the blacksmith even managed to wound Ahriman on the cheek. Touching his face, the demon saw the green ichor that was his blood on his hand.

       "Give up, demon!" Methos said breathlessly. "Duncan belongs with me!"

       His eyes blazing with hellfire, Ahriman roared, "NEVER!" and attacked the ancient with fast, furious strokes. As the Highlander looked on in horror, the demon wrenched Methos' sword out of his hand and stabbed him in the belly. The ancient stared at his adversary in disbelief as his trembling hands clutched the spear protruding from his abdomen. Jerking the spear out of Methos' body, Ahriman raised it high.

       "Time to die, Methos!" he declared in triumph.

       Somehow, Duncan found the strength to stand. "NO! STOP!" he cried, placing himself between the demon and his wounded lover.

       The irony of the situation did not escape Methos' notice, remembering a time when the Scot stood before him, protecting him from the hell horse that was about to stomp him to death.

       "Duncan, get out of the way!" Methos shouted, but the brave Highlander held his ground.

       "Lower your spear, Ahriman," Duncan said firmly. "You've beaten him. You have won! He is no longer a threat to you."

       "He will continue being a threat to me unless I kill him!"

       "But what about me? Am I not the bigger threat to you? If you slay Methos, I will take up his sword and I will fight you."

       For a moment, the demon hesitated. Duncan thought he saw something in his eyes, something he could not define.

       "MacLeod?" Ahriman asked in disbelief. "You would turn against me?"

       "Yes, if you kill him."

       Ahriman thought for a moment. "What do I get in exchange for Methos' life?"

       The Scot's answer was simple. "You'll have me."

       "DUNCAN, NO!" cried Methos, shocked that the Highlander would offer himself to the demon.

       "Forgive me, Methos," Duncan stated firmly, "But this must be done." Gazing at the hellspawn before him, he queried, "Well, Ahriman? Do we have a deal?"

       "No, not yet!" There was a wicked grin on the demon's face. "I want you to prove it, MacLeod! Give yourself to me willingly. Let your lover witness for himself who truly owns you. Only then will I set him free."

       Though he knew the sight of his defloration would break Methos' heart, the Highlander nodded his head. "Agreed."

       "No, Duncan!" the ancient exclaimed. "Don't do this! I won't let you!"

       But before he could run to the younger man, a strong force froze him in place. "Duncan," he muttered, as tears fell from his eyes, seeing his lover go towards the demon.

       "On your knees, Highlander!" Ahriman ordered gruffly, pointing to the ground.

       "I refuse, Ahriman," said the Scot strongly. "I am not an animal! If you want to take me, you may do so by treating me as a human being."

       "It makes no difference to me, as long as you spread your legs!"

       Meekly, Duncan lay down on the dirt floor, removing the length of fabric covering his genitals. As the demon straddled him, he turned his face to the side, not wanting to behold the monstrous being about to ravish him.

       "I see you are revolted by my touch," Ahriman whispered in the Highlander's ear, nuzzling in the silky sable mane. His hands went down and found a nipple. Twisting and pulling it hard, the demon smiled at the sight of the blood that blossomed on Duncan's lower lip when the Scot bit down on it.

       "You do not have to hurt me like this." Duncan gasped when Ahriman slid a clawed finger inside his ass.

       "I want you to feel pain, MacLeod. I need your hatred and rage to rise inside you, so you would fight me. It will only make the conquest much sweeter."

       Feeling the demon's huge cock penetrate him, the Highlander felt the anger welling up inside him.

       "Yes, that's it!" Ahriman exclaimed, seeing the helpless Immortal grit his teeth. "Let the anger fill you! Fight me, Highlander!"

       Duncan's head snapped up, his hands gripping the demon's throat, desperate to fight for the preservation of what little honor he had left.

       _ What the... _It was then that Duncan looked into Ahriman's eyes, startled by what he saw. Sorrow. Deep longing. Desire. And ... _Could it be possible?_

       Suddenly, the Scot's mind flew back to the past.

 

       _ Duncan was playing in the tunnels, when suddenly he fell. Oh, how he cried as he clutched his aching_ knee!

       _"What is it, Duncan?" a gentle voice asked him. "Why are you crying?"_

_       He looked up to find the hooded form of the Master, gazing down at him. _

_       Sniffling, Duncan pointed to the scrape on his knee. _

_       "Did you fall, child?" the Master said softly. "Here! Let me take care of it for you." _

_       With theatrical flair, he waved his fingers over the wound and healed it. "Does it still hurt?" _

_       Touching the unbroken skin in wonder, Duncan shook his head. He smiled so sweetly at his guardian. "No, it doesn't! Thank you! Thank you very much!" _

_       Eagerly, he embraced the Master that he accidentally knocked the hood from his head, revealing the demon that he truly was. Ahriman had turned his face away in shame, not wanting to frighten him. _

_       But Duncan wasn't afraid. He urged the demon to look at him. Lovingly, he kissed the glowing ruby on Ahriman's forehead, before putting the hood back in place. _

_       "Duncan?" Ahriman asked then in surprise. _

_       The Highland child took his hand. "Come play with me!" _

_       The vision suddenly changed. Duncan was a man now, sleeping in his bedchamber. He awoke to feel his blanket being pulled up slowly, baring his legs and rump. His eyes widened as cold hands caressed his thighs. _

_       The Highlander sat up, pulling the quilt over his naked form. He saw the Master standing beside the bed. Horrified by what he had just done, with a mewling cry, Ahriman fled from the room. _

_       "No! Wait!" he called as he swiftly donned his robe. _

_       The Scot found the demon in one of the smaller tunnels, weeping in remorse. _

_       Hearing him, Ahriman exclaimed, "I'm sorry! Please forgive me!" _

_       Duncan went towards his guardian and wrapped his arms soothingly around him. _

_       "I won't deny you this," he said softly, "if this is what you want. All you have to do is ask. I owe you this." _

_       Ahriman embraced his adopted son. "No, Duncan. I won't ask this of you. You don't owe me anything. I am the one who has done you a great wrong." _

_       "Then, I forgive you," the Highlander said simply. _

 

       Duncan found himself crying, shedding tears for his lost guardian. Loosening his grip around the demon's throat, instead, he placed his hands behind Ahriman's neck.

       "It doesn't have to be this way, Ahriman," he whispered between pain-filled gasps. "You know that."

       Seeing the anguish in the Scot's eyes, the demon stopped his furious pounding into the Highlander's body. "MacLeod?"

       "No. Call me Duncan, like the way you used to." Saying this, he began thrusting his hips upward, driving the demon's cock deeper inside his channel. Ahriman responded to that languid motion, following the easy pace of the man beneath him.

       "What are you doing?" Ahriman asked in growing alarm, wanting to withdraw. But the Scot pulled him closer.

       "I become one with everything. I become one with you," Duncan muttered, urging the demon to heights of love and passion he had never experienced before. "I become everything. Therefore, I become nothing. Therefore, you are nothing."

       "NOOO! LET ME GO!" roared Ahriman, struggling to break free from the Highlander's grasp. However, his body betrayed him, aching for the joining that was inevitable between them.

       As Duncan took Ahriman's erection deeper inside his body, milking the long shaft with his muscles, he continued, "Without my anger, you have no substance. Without my pride, you have no form. Without my hate, you have no being." The Highlander embraced the demon lovingly, feeling his flesh fully penetrated. "Let go of your anger and hatred, Ahriman! Let go of the evil that is inside you! Even for a brief time, please give me back the man I care for, the man who cared for me - my beloved guardian!"

       When the Highlander pressed his lips to the glowing ruby on the demon's forehead, Ahriman screamed as he came into Duncan's body, his cry a mixture of agony and pleasure.

       Methos saw the demon's form dissipate into flashes of red light before his eyes, until only a tiny spark was left. Duncan sat up and took the light in his hands.

       "Forgive me, Duncan," the light spoke in Ahriman's voice. "Forgive me for all the terrible things I did to you."

       The Scot caressed the spark. "Ahriman, I forgive you."

       Slowly, the spark flew out of his hand. "Duncan, thank you! Thank you so much for everything!" It then dropped into the blazing river below.

       When the demon was gone, Methos found that he could move. He ran towards the Highlander and took him in his arms.

       "Duncan, are you all right?" the ancient asked in concern, caressing the younger man's cheek. "Did he hurt you?"

       "No, not really."

       "What happened? What was that all about?"

       "I simply gave him what he always wanted. Ahriman wasn't always evil, Methos. As a child, he was like a father to me." Duncan gazed out into the magnificent, though still terrifying, panorama of Hell. "Hell is such a lonely place. Could you just imagine living here before the concept of time was ever created? Ahriman wanted to experience something different, something new. He never expected he would find it in the Highland child who was prophesied to be his destroyer."

       The Scot sighed. "What the child and, later, the man taught him ran contrary to the purpose he was created for. The feelings his adopted son roused in him were intoxicating. Ahriman didn't want to lose me. He wanted to keep me at his side forever. But he knew it was impossible."

       "For one, there was the constant risk that I would discover that it was he who raped me. So Ahriman tried to change me into his image - by teaching me to kill and, most especially, to hate the man whom I believed ravished me, and all who would protect him. He never counted on my becoming handfasted to and, eventually, falling in love with the man he taught me to hate. That was why he was so determined to see you die, either at my hands or by his. In the end, Ahriman realized that in triumph or defeat, he would lose me. He would lose the pure soul of the child he had cared for for twenty five years."

       A frown creased Methos' brow. "You said 'cared for.' Are you telling me that..."

       The Highlander nodded his head. "Yes, that Ahriman, a demon, LOVED me." Duncan glanced at the ancient thoughtfully. "Are you angry that I gave myself willingly to him? Methos, I cannot deny him this. I cannot bear to see him languish in this desolate place. At least now, he knows, with what I have given him, that even in Hell, love could exist. Ahriman would survive on that."

       "How could you be so forgiving, Duncan?" the Old Man queried. "If I were in your place, I know I wouldn't be."

       "It's so easy to forgive, if you know that you yourself have made mistakes. You taught me that."

       "Me?"

       Duncan gazed at the blacksmith sorrowfully. "I shouldn't have judged you. I've seen the man you truly are, but I still believed Ahriman's lies. I was so wrong to have doubted you. I should have listened to my heart."

       "It doesn't matter," Methos whispered, kissing the younger man on the lips. "It's all over now. We could go home and be together forever."

       Tears began to fall from Duncan's eyes as he kissed the ancient just as tenderly. "No, Methos. I won't be going with you."

       Startled, the Old Man looked at the Scot questioningly. "What are you saying?"

       Suddenly, the rock began to quake at their feet. A crack formed between them, splitting the rock in two, that Methos had to take a few steps back lest he fall into the river of fire below. Gazing up, he saw the Highlander being lifted by giant hands. He was horrified to see that it was the hideous form of Satan himself who held his beloved. Duncan, however, didn't seem afraid. There was even a gentle smile on his face as his tears sparkled on his cheeks like crystals.

       "Methos, I'm sorry," Duncan told him sadly. "I must stay here and pay for the grievous sin I committed against you. God has handfasted us, and I disobeyed His will by breaking the bond He has formed between us."

       "But it was a mistake," argued Methos. "Ahriman deceived you. You didn't know."

       "The truth, however, was right in my face, and I chose not to see it. It is my fault and I must face the consequences of my actions."

       "No!" the ancient cried. "I'm not leaving without you!"

       "Methos, please don't make it anymore difficult than it already is," the Highlander begged him. "I don't want you to suffer here with me. Live, Methos! Grow stronger! Fight another day! Learn from the mistakes I have made."

       "Duncan, I can't leave you here! How could I live, knowing you're here because of me?"

       "You will. It's a simple thing I ask of you."

       "Will I ever see you again?" Methos asked hopefully, though he knew the painful truth.

       Duncan shook his head. "No. I've condemned my soul for all eternity."

       Then, Methos felt a strong force pulling him, drawing him further and further away from the Scot.

       "NO! I'M NOT LEAVING!" he roared, reaching out to his lover.

       "Goodbye, Methos!" the Highlander said. "Please take some small consolation in the fact that I love you, and that the love you have for me will help me to endure whatever punishment is in store for me."

       "DUNCAN! DUNCAN, NO!" But Methos felt his soul being drawn back to the land of the living. His last memory was of the brave Highlander, standing tall and proud in the devil's palms, his sable locks and the plaid coiled around his body, fluttering in the wind. So like an angel he looked, a beautiful archangel fallen from the grace of God Almighty.

       As his soul slammed back into his body, it was this memory that quickly filled his mind that Methos' eyes snapped open.

 

       Cassandra was among the throng awaiting the return of the blacksmith. It's been two hours since Methos went up the hill and, still, there was no sign of him.

       Suddenly, an anguished cry filled the air, echoing from the top of the hill. Without thinking twice, Cassandra hurried up the hill, sword in hand, fearing for the life of the Immortal. Reaching the top, she was stunned by the sight that greeted her.

       Methos was weeping hard, lost in the misery of his broken heart. In his arms, he cradled the lifeless form of Duncan MacLeod.

       At first, Cassandra thought the smith was wracking himself with guilt over killing his own lover, until she saw how Methos caressed the Highlander's cheeks, kissing those cold, pale lips. She never imagined it could be possible. But it was right there before her eyes.

       Yes, an Immortal could die without taking his head.  


 


	9. Chapter 9

 

** CHAPTER NINE **

 

       "You know you really don't have to leave," Cassandra remarked as she watched the ancient load his meager belongings into the wagon.

       "It's either that or I..." Methos didn't finish what he was going to say. The seeress knew what was going on inside his mind. She stole a quick glance at the healing wounds on his wrists and arms.

       A week had passed since that fateful day on the hill. There was a major debate among the villagers about what was to be done with the Highlander's body. Some suggested that the body be burned. Others wanted to just leave it on the hill as carrion for wolves and vultures.

       Methos, however, fought fiercely for the right to his lover's remains. With Cassandra's help, he buried the Scot beside Alexa's grave.

       Since then, Methos hadn't visited the grave at all. Instead, he had made several attempts on his life. At one point, he had even begged Cassandra to take his head. The seeress, however, refused.

       In a way, Cassandra knew it was better that Methos leave this place. It always pained her to stumble upon the Old Man bleeding from a deep cut on his arm, only to wail in grief when that same cut healed quickly. Sometimes, she would find him seated in a dark corner of the house, staring blankly into space as he clutched the broken handfasting band close to his heart.

       "Are you going to visit the graves?" she asked. "To say goodbye?"

       Methos shook his head. "At least, Alexa is at peace. But Duncan? How could I live, knowing where he is? If we were together, maybe..."

       Cassandra bit her lower lip. Only she knew the great sacrifice the Highlander had made.

       "It would only increase his sufferings if he sees you with him. Like he told you, knowing that you are still alive, given the opportunity to rectify the mistakes you have made, make up for the sins you have committed, would give him the courage to endure the horrors of Hell. If Duncan is that determined to survive his punishment, is it that difficult for you to live?"

       Methos sighed, tears welling up in his eyes once more. "I'll try."

       As he got on board the wagon, Cassandra suddenly remembered something. "Methos..."

       The Old Man gave her a weary glance.

       "The children in the village," she began hesitantly. "They've been saying that the pond is haunted. They claim that they've seen Death's ghost, standing at the water's edge."

       Methos laughed bitterly. "Children! Always letting their imaginations run away with them! How could they see 'Death's ghost' when, right at this very minute, Duncan's soul is suffering in Hell!"

       "It won't hurt to look," the seeress suggested.

       Flicking the reins, the ancient answered, "I'm tired of running after dreams that I could never have. Farewell, Cassandra, and thank you for your kindness."

       Cassandra felt her heart stung at that remark. As she watched the blacksmith ride away, she thought, What 'kindness'? I've destroyed the lives of two good people!

 

       Contrary to what he said, however, Methos found his curiosity piqued by the supposed haunting of the pond. Since it was only a few minutes to nightfall, the ancient decided to drop by and see for himself. He secured the horse and wagon to a pine before heading towards the pond. Reaching it, Methos saw that there was no one there. Still, he chose to stay awhile, leaning against a shelf of rock overlooking the pond.

       As night fell, Methos found himself thinking more and more about the Scot. He recalled the circumstances of their first meeting and how they were handfasted through a stroke of Divine Intervention. Methos could remember how beautiful Duncan looked in his arms, while he lay in the deep slumber of First Death. If the ancient thought hard enough, he could feel the silkiness of those smooth cheeks and the softness of those lips. At that memory, Methos got to his feet, hoping that he had somehow worked some kind of spell and that he would find the Highlander by the pond. His heart sank when he saw nothing.

       Taking the broken bracelet out of his pocket, he stared at it for awhile. Sobbing, he repeated bitterly, "I'm tired of running after dreams I could never have!" In anger, Methos hurled the band into the pond.

       However, the blacksmith apparently didn't throw the band hard enough...or something blocked it. Whatever the reason, the bracelet flew in a wide arc, and stopped before it could reach the water. Suddenly, it just dropped vertically to the ground, right at the feet of the disheveled figure standing at the water's edge.

       Methos couldn't believe what he was seeing. The man was dressed in a white shirt dirtied by mud and grime, the sleeves torn. Around his waist was a tattered kilt of faded blue. He had no boots on his feet. But scratches from walking through the brush marked his legs. Though his face was covered with dried mud, it was the face of someone Methos knew, someone he had loved.

       "Duncan?" he asked in disbelief. Happily, the ancient cried, "DUNCAN!" as he ran towards the Scot.

       The Highlander didn't turn to look at the man who called his name. He just stood there, staring into the water. But Methos didn't notice this, too happy as he was to see his lover again.

       Embracing the Scot tightly, the ancient declared, "You're alive! Thank God! I thought I'd never see you again!" When he pulled away to gaze at his beloved more closely, it was then that Methos saw the blankness on Duncan's face, the absence of light in those beautiful doe eyes.

       Methos wanted to weep. "Oh, Duncan!" he whispered. "My dear love! Has Hell broken your soul?" Wiping away his tears, Methos exclaimed, "Why should I feel sad? You're back! You're here with me now, and that's all that matters! I'll take care of you!" Getting to his feet, he said, "Wait for me, Duncan! I'll just go get some things from the wagon."

 

       A few minutes later, the two men were seated at the edge of the pond.

       Using the clean cloth he had dipped into the water, he said, "Here! Let me clean you up!" and proceeded to wash the Highlander's face, removing the dirt. When his face was clean, Methos carefully peeled off the shirt, washing the neck and shoulders.

       So engrossed was he in his task that Methos didn't notice those dark brown eyes blink several times. As he descended to the firm chest, Duncan slowly gazed down at the man who was bathing him.

       Methos almost jumped when the Scot grabbed his wrist.

       "Duncan?" he asked curiously.

       The Highlander didn't reply. Instead, he turned Methos' arm that the cuts were revealed in the moonlight. A displeased, yet sad, frown creased his brow.

       "I'm sorry," Methos apologized. "I know I promised I wouldn't hurt myself."

       Duncan raised Methos' hand, pressing his face to the ancient's palm, as he ran his right hand over the wounds. He was making small sounds, like a puppy easing his mother's hurts.

       The smith wasn't sure if the Highlander was starting to remember. Hopefully, he queried, "Duncan? Do you know me? Do you remember who I am?"

       However, the Scot continued with his tender ministrations of the Old Man's wounds, his eyes closed, tears trickling down his cheeks. At the sight of those tears, suddenly, Methos found his longing too much to bear.

       Gently, Methos embraced the younger man, kissing those full lips hungrily. To his credit, Duncan didn't pull away, allowing the ancient to taste his lips and the moist cavern between them. Then, Methos caressed those cheeks, going down to the long, graceful neck. The Highlander turned his face to the side, allowing the Old Man to nuzzle at the junction between his neck and shoulder, nipping at his earlobe. As he paid lingual tribute to his lover's shoulder, Methos' hands descended, cupping the slabs of muscle of the Scot's chest. A whimper escaped Duncan's lips as he pinched the nubs of sensitive flesh. Soon, the ancient wanted to take those buttons into his mouth. Licking his way down the path between the Highlander's pectorals, Methos pulled the younger man very close to him as he buried his face on the broad chest. Duncan moaned as his nipple was consumed, teased to an exquisite point by the gentle pressure of Methos' lips and tongue. When the ancient moved to the other tit, he felt Duncan slowly ease his thighs apart, pulling his kilt up, allowing Methos access to that most delicate blossom, needing the sensual draught that only the smith could give it.

       Not wanting to prolong their agony any longer, Methos peeled off his own clothes and took Duncan's erect member in his hand, just as he slid his own cock in the Highlander's moist sheath.

       Duncan cried out as the ring of muscle was suddenly breached. Instinctively, he tightened his channel around the invader.

       "Don't be afraid, Duncan," Methos whispered, stroking his lover's cock. "Relax! Breath, love!"

       The steady pressure of the older man's grip on his member distracted the Highlander that his channel began to relax. Methos took his time penetrating his lover, thrusting his cock inch by inch by inch. But the slow pace made the Scot very impatient.

       Taking Methos in his arms, Duncan pulled on the ancient's hips hard, driving Methos' cock deep inside him. Though he was surprised to find that he was fully sheathed inside his lover, Methos allowed his instincts and desires to take over. His pace quickened as he thrust into the Highlander. At the same time, the Old Man squeezed the younger man's rod.

       The two men came almost simultaneously. Duncan screamed as he ejaculated in Methos' hand and all over their bellies. The ancient's orgasm was just as explosive, gushing his fluids inside the Scot's flesh.

       Before the sleep of the sated overcame him, Methos' eyes fell upon the broken handfasting bracelet lying on the ground beside them. Placing it around Duncan's wrist, he then bent down and kissed his lover on the lips.

       Gazing lovingly at the beautiful angel sleeping in his arms, he thought happily, _If this is a dream, I wish I__ never wake up. _Methos soon drifted off. Unknown to him, while he slept, the band on Duncan's wrist began to sparkle, casting a golden glow around the slumbering Highlander.

 

       It was dawn when Methos woke up, resigned to the possibility that what happened the previous night was just a dream created by his lonely heart. So it was to his great surprise that he found his dear Celtic angel cuddled in his arms. He pressed his hands to his lips, stifling the joyous cry bubbling up inside him. Still, he wanted to be sure.

       Slowly, Methos bent down and kissed the slumbering figure on the lips. What his mouth encountered was soft flesh. To his delight, a small smile formed on those lush lips.

       Sobbing, the ancient cast his eyes to the heavens. "Thank you, Lord!" he said gratefully. "Oh, thank you so much!"

       The blacksmith got to his feet and swiftly put on his clothes. He went to the wagon, laying some quilts on the floor. Going back, he then wrapped the sleeping Scot in his scarlet cloak, lifting him up in his arms.

       "We'll always be together, Duncan," Methos murmured in his lover's ear. "No one's going to tear us apart ever again."

       It was while he was laying the Highlander on the soft quilts that he noticed the bracelet on the Scot's wrist. Carefully, he lifted Duncan's hand up to get a closer look. Sure enough, a third of the length of the crack that had split the band has been sealed. There were no visible seams. It's as if the metal had grown over it.

       Then, Duncan pulled his hand out of the ancient's grasp, pouting. With a sigh, he whispered something. Though it was so soft, Methos heard it, and he felt his heart singing.

       Climbing in the driver's seat, Methos mused, _The broken bond between us is healing. It's only a matter of_ _time before I have my lover whole again._

       Urging Hesperus to a leisurely pace, the ancient gazed out into the rising sun. He was very patient. He knew he could wait even if it took centuries. Hope burned fiercely inside his heart, remembering what the Highlander whispered in his sleep.

       It was his name that Duncan muttered. "Methos."


End file.
